


Put Your Hand on the Glass

by aimmyarrowshigh, colazitron



Category: Stereo Kicks (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 85,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Barclay meet, and two worlds collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tom Mann and the Complexity of Muggle Plumbing

** Tom Mann and the Complexity of Muggle Plumbing **

"Did you see me out there? I was like Darren fuckin' O'Hare tonight. 500 to nil, lads! We put 'em in the _ground_!"

A waft of Malkin's for Men clouds off of Casey as he scrubs the potion over his underarms, sodden uniform robes already packed away to be washed by the team elves. Jake had dumped a barrel of iced pumpkin juice over Casey's head when they took the victory, and now everything either of them has touched is sticky. In the corner of the changing room, James whoops his appreciation for Casey's words even as the team nurse repairs his broken elbow.

"Calm down, Casey, it was just the Cannons," Tom laughs. He pulls his own black-and-white Magpies robes over his head. "My old under-10s could beat the Cannons by now."

Casey laughs and hands the potion off to Jake, who mimics Casey and rubs it all along his underarms. It won’t be long and everyone in the room’ll smell like the stuff.

“That’s because Coach Tom trained ruthless little machines,” Casey teases.

Tom rolls his eyes. He’s good with kids, actually, not, like, unnecessarily cruel or anything. Under-10s are ruthless little machines all on their own anyway. Besides, now that he's off the Reserves and on the Montrose Magpies' premier squad, his coaching days are behind him. At least until he's old and can't withstand being hit by bludgers anymore. Sure, they occasionally give him headaches and he did lead them to play to win, not _just_ to play, but there’s nothing wrong with that. There were a few there who wanted to do Quidditch all the way through Hogwarts _and after_ and if he could give them a head start why wouldn’t he? 

Casey's still too much of a Gryffindor to understand. He's happy just to dangle off his broom doing the Starfish-with-Stick to show off for the crowd, and it only comes across how seriously he takes the game on the occasions they lose.

Tom doesn't like to let those occasions arise.

(Granted, that’s not just for Casey’s benefit. Sure, he doesn’t like seeing the grim line between Casey’s brows, but he also doesn’t like losing.)

“Anyway,” James cuts in, from where his arm is still knitting itself back together under Nurse Blake’s wand, “that dive you made for the snitch was impressive.”

Tom grins. It was a good one: there are grass stains all along the front of his robes, but he ended the game on his broom and in the air. 500 is a good, round score. He likes it. It will look nice alongside his name in the Prophet tomorrow.

“Well, you looked like you were getting tired. I thought it was a good time to end the game,” he says.

“Oh, fuck off,” Casey laughs and chucks the Malkin’s for Men at this head. Tom only barely manages to catch it before it spills all over him and drenches him in the scent. He grins and shrugs like it’s not a big deal when Casey, James and Jake all whoop and laugh.

Sometimes it's still strange to play on Casey's team instead of against it. All of the bravado and posturing of House politics aside, though, Tom's always liked him well enough. He's a year younger, so Tom didn't know him well at school, but they had NEWT Herbology together in Tom's final year. He doesn't think through his choices very clearly, but neither does Jake -- and Tom should know, since he shared a dormitory with the idiot for seven years.

The changing room is never very quiet after a game they’ve won, but half the team has already filed out and Tom finds he’s only hanging around to see James healed. They’ve played together for years now and Tom just ... rests easier knowing all the team is all healed up and ready to go after they’re done. Not that they have anything set for tomorrow, but it’s always good when there haven’t been any injuries that take more than a few minutes to heal.

“Anyone coming with to the pub?” Casey asks, bag slung over his shoulder casually, leaning against the wall by the door.

"What pubs are here?" Jake laughs. "Chudley Cannon supporters haven't had the need to get a celebratory pint in over a hundred years."

"All the more reason for getting drunk," Casey says. "There's one out in Exeter that's nice." He pauses. "I was gonna meet my brother."

There’s still that bit of silence that falls whenever Muggles get involved. It’s not as bad as it once was, of course. And there’s thankfully no one on the team who’d ever give Casey a hard time about being born from Muggles, but it’s still A Thing. The war and all it stands for are still fresh on everyone’s minds, even those of the ones who had been too young to participate.

Tom, for his part, finds Muggles fascinating. The fact they’ve managed to come farther than the wheel without any magic at all is, he thinks, somewhat impressive.

"I'll come along," he says. "Chet's a laugh. And I saw in a Muggle magazine at King's Cross last I went to cheer for the new team that these jeans I bought are quite stylish. I want to test them out."

Casey looks at him half like he hopes Tom is joking about the jeans. Really, how was Tom supposed to know that all the Muggle fashion magazines that had been stocked at the Hogwarts Library had been from a few decades ago?

"Yeah, I'm in," Jake says. "Never say no to booze. And I want to see Tom make a fool of himself."

"I got an O in Muggle Studies, thanks," Tom sniffs. "I am very comfortable with their ways."

“‘Their ways’, Tommy? Really?” Jake teases.

Tom grinds his teeth but knows better than to say anything. _No one_ calls him ‘Tommy’. He just sniffs again and starts to wriggle into his Muggle jeans. They seem awfully tight, but they do make his ankles look nice. He read in class that Muggles have long found ankles to be erotic. He’s always assumed this is for the same reason his grandmother wouldn’t let him leave the house with his robes rolled up over his elbows.

Casey wolf whistles at him when he’s done wriggling.

“Tom’s finally arrived in the right century!”

"Oh, fuck off." Clearly, the ankles are doing the trick. Tom pulls his jumper over his head. "Are we getting drunk or not?"

“Just waiting on you,” Casey grins even though Jake’s still struggling with his own jeans and James is still changing slowly. His arm probably smarts at least a bit still. James is a bit of a puffskein when it comes to injuries anyway. The first time a bludger broke his nose, it was like the end of the world. 

You’d think it’d be the Muggleborns like Casey who worried about injuries most, given their abysmal medicine, but Casey dangles and falls off his broom like he’s indestructible. That might just be the Gryffindor in him, though.

Casey has more meat to him than James, though, to be fair. No matter how many Cauldron Cakes James eats, he never gains a kilo. Tom both envies and pities him.

The night is pleasant and cool when they leave the Chudley Cannons' stadium. Hogwarts has been back in session nearly six weeks, and Tom's gone back twice to look at the new Slytherin team and to see the old stomping grounds. There's a new Keeper, Charlie, to replace the loss of Jake since last year, who seems quite good. He's only in his fourth year and already tipped for captain. There isn't another Slytherin match for a few weeks, but Tom hopes that he can convince the lads to come along this time and see. Jake and James both retch whenever Tom mentions returning to Hogwarts, but Tom liked school.

It probably has something to do with having been made both captain of the Slytherin quidditch team and then Head Boy in his final year, but... Well. It’s not Tom’s fault Jake and James were both too busy being idiots to dodge detentions. And, yes, fine, Tom is a bit swotty. 

To Casey, school was just school, and while they get along perfectly well, Tom doesn’t expect to ever see him in the green stands of a school quidditch match. You’d never catch Tom anywhere else, after all. No matter how much he likes Casey, he’d never be caught dead in the Gryffindor bleachers.

“Alright, are we all about done?” Casey asks. “I don’t have a portkey, so we’ll have to Apparate.”

They queue up to Apparate from the designated spot and land in an alley behind the Muggle pub where Casey's planning to meet Chet.

Muggle alleys, Tom sees, are not at all like, say, Diagon Alley. Instead, they smell, and the cat sitting atop a rubbish bin is likely just a yellow-eyed cat.

“Chet texted,” Casey says. “He’s inside.”

“Texted?” Jake asks. He didn’t take Muggle Studies.

“Like owl post. Without owls,” Tom says.

Casey laughs.

“And a lot faster,” he adds.

Jake still looks baffled, but he follows Casey around the corner and through the front door.

He immediately takes a step back, landing on Tom's toes. "Why's it so _loud_?" He points at a glowing box above the barback. "That box is yelling at me."

"The football's on," Casey only says and shrugs, then turns away from them.

Jake turns around to stare askance at Tom. Tom rolls his eyes to let Jake know he’s an idiot, but explains (to show he’s not).

“The Muggle’s Quidditch. There are eleven players on each team and there’s only one ball.”

“Blimey,” Jake says, eyebrows shooting up. “How do they all get to play if there’s only one ball?”

Just then a mighty cheer goes up in the pub, the box - the TV, Tom knows - gets louder and Casey seems to spot his brother.

Casey leads the way, elbowing around Muggles balancing tall glasses of beer. (Any man worth his salt, Muggle or wizard, can recognize beer -- even Jake.) Chet's easy to spot with all of his tattoos and the metal rings through his ears. Casey came back to school in his fifth year with a bar like that through his tongue, but Longbottom made him take it out.

“Oy, Chet!” Casey calls out to him when they’re close enough to be heard over the ruckus and Chet turns and grins at this brother. Chet punches Casey’s shoulder and when Casey returns the gesture grabs him in a headlock to mess up his hair. Casey laughs and doesn’t struggle out of the hold as effectively as Tom thinks he could.

“You brought your merry gang of Merlins,” Chet says once they’ve settled down.

"I got a new tattoo," Jake immediately offers Chet. They tuck their dark heads together as Jake rolls up his sleeve to show the pegasus on his shoulder, its wings beating smoothly across the expanse of skin. "Wicked, yeah?"

Casey and Jake were not friends at Hogwarts -- Slytherin versus Gryffindor nonsense, for the most part -- but from the moment they met at the League tryout, they'd been close as kneazles. Tom was invited along the first time Casey brought Jake home to invite him to his father and brother, so he knows that Chet was the first Muggle that Jake ever met. He's still the only Muggle Jake knows.

To be fair, he's the only Muggle Tom knows, either. It's easier with someone like Chet, who's at least aware that their world... exists.

Tom's not sure how one would go about... befriending a Muggle otherwise. Obviously people must do it, because half-bloods exist, but Tom's not sure how? He's also not sure about the laws there, if he's quite honest. He knows they're generally supposed to keep magic hush hush but then at what point does it become okay to tell?

Casey's family all know about him, though. Tom remembers that once they were even in the stands to cheer on the Gryffindor team when they were up to the last game of the Quidditch Cup.

Tom doesn't know what Chet sees when he looks at them -- can he see them flying, or does he see a game like the football playing on the televisions overhead? Can he see the quaffle being thrown but not the Snitch or the bludgers, since they're enchanted? Or is it different for Muggles who know that the magic is there and can rationalize it in their heads?

Maybe the anti-Muggle spells just get lifted for specific ones when it’s known that they’ll be attending. Tom’s never had to pay too much attention to all that, being from a long line of purebloods himself.

At any rate, Chet can definitely see moving tattoos. That first time at the Johnsons' house, he and Jake had both practically stripped naked right in the living room to compare their ink.

"That's a good one," Chet says with no small degree of longing. Tom's never heard him sound jealous about his brother's magical blood, but he does like the little things: moving tattoos, games of Exploding Snap. Chet’s not allowed either of those, of course, despite having a wizard in the family. Well, he can play a game with them, but he’s not allowed a deck of cards of his own or a tattoo that gallivants across his skin. Tom’s not even sure if he could. He never thought about getting one so he’s not sure if it’s just the magic of the artist or the wearer’s that keeps it moving.

Jake rolls his sleeve back down. "Thanks, mate. I call him Frederick."

"That's a terrible name for a horse." Chet holds up his hand for the barkeep to come take their orders. Tom busies himself with reading all of the bottles behind the bar.

Alcohol is not something that they learned in Muggle Studies, but how hard can it be?

Casey and Chet both ask for a pint. Of what they don’t say, but it doesn’t seem necessary as the barkeep doesn’t ask for further clarification. James and Jake both copy them, looking unsure of what they’re doing. Tom straightens his shoulders and asks for José Cuervo.

He has always fancied a trip to Spain.

The bartender's eyebrows rise. When the drinks come down the shiny wood of the bar, Tom's is about an eighth the size of everyone else's.

It seems unfair.

“Bottoms up, Mann,” Casey says. “To the man of the hour.”

He’s raising his glass of beer - Tom files away the information about the ‘pint’ for later - at him, the other three mimicking him. Somehow it feels like more of a challenge than a congratulations. Damn Gryffindors.

Tom grabs his glass and tips it down his throat. It burns like Firewhiskey on his tongue, but it’s smooth too. It does not taste good. It's all he can do to keep his tongue inside his mouth.

There's a broad laugh next to him, and Tom turns his head to look. There's still booze in his mouth. He can't quite swallow it, but he doesn't want to taste it again to do anything else.

“Tequila not your poison?” the pretty guy with the pretty laugh asks.

Tom does rather feel like it must be poison in his mouth. He swallows it anyway.

"I think not," he admits. He looks at the pretty guy's glass. "What's that one?"

"Rum and Coke," he says. He gives Tom a lingering look up and down. He did seem to fixate on the ankles; at least Tom got that right. "You want one?"

Tom pauses for a moment, then smiles.

“I think I do,” he says and sidles a little closer, taking two steps away from his own group and towards the pretty man. He can handle a conversation with a Muggle. One who genuinely _doesn’t_ know about magic.

He has short-shorn dark hair and big brown eyes that light up with his easy grin, and Tom doesn't think it's just the alcohol in whatever this 'rum and coke' is. He's wearing jeans, too, but they don't show off his ankles. His thighs look nice in them, though.

Sometimes Tom thinks Muggles have it right with the way they do fashion. Robes would hide everything good that Muggle clothes don’t. And that’s not just this man’s thighs, it’s the strength in his biceps and the width of his shoulders as well.

He nudges the glass filled with dark liquid towards Tom as soon as the barkeep sets it down.

“Cheers, stranger,” he says and lifts his own glass, inclining his head towards Tom.

"Cheers," Tom says, and he takes a cautious sip. Oh, this one is sweet and it's fizzy in the way that butterbeer is. He could down a few of these, no problem.

The pretty guy is watching him for a reaction, so Tom smiles and takes a few bigger gulps, draining half the glass. The sweet fizziness is chased by something that reminds him of the earlier burn, but it’s nothing as harsh. It just leaves a little warmth in his throat and his belly once he’s swallowed it.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m Tom.”

"Barclay," says the pretty muggle. "I've not seen you around here before. Did you come to watch the match?"

The shock must show on Tom's face, because there's barely a second before Barclay gestures to the glowing television box above the bar. "Crystal Palace, Southampton?"

“Oh!” Tom says and then shakes his head. He knows a bit about how football works, in theory, but he has no idea who or what Crystal Palace and Southampton are. Are they teams? A stadium? He can’t fake his way through this particular conversation.

“No,” he says and then points a thumb over his shoulder. “Came with some mates. One of them’s meeting up with his brother.”

Barclay nods. "Good. I hate having to pretend I care about football. It's exhausting."

Tom laughs. Well, that’s fortunate.

“So do I,” he says.

Barclay smiles at Tom again and drums his fingertips on the side of his glass. "What do you care about, then?"

Shit.

“My cat,” Tom blurts, as it’s the first thing that comes to mind that’s not Quidditch, or otherwise related to magic. It’s just a boring old house cat, though it does seem too smart to be that sometimes. “And my family.”

Barclay laughs again, his eyes scrunched shut like what Tom's said is much, much funnier than it really was.

"I'm allergic to cats," he says apologetically once he's stopped laughing. "But I suppose I'm not allergic to hearing about them."

“Not much to tell,” Tom says. “She sleeps, eats, hunts. Cat things.”

He takes another sip from his drink and then nods at Barclay.

“What about yourself?”

"What do I care about," Barclay muses, nursing a long sip of his drink. "I don't know, really. I just moved back to Devon. Into my childhood house, actually. It's interesting, it's like... I half-remember things, but then I think I don't, really. The house is a disaster, so mostly I care about getting it in order. I had to take a break though, because it turns out I fucking hate tiling, so I came here."

He looks up at Tom from beneath dark lashes. “You could say that tiling makes me grout-chy.”

Tom laughs. “Tiling?” he asks. “You do that yourself?”

His understanding was that muggles, who didn’t have an array of spells at their disposal for work that needs to be done around the house, had specialists for almost everything. Given the precision required in working the spell, Tom would assume physically placing each tile requires the same effort. Surely that’d be left to a specialist? A tiler?

Barclay shrugs. "It isn't hard. Why pay someone for something you can do on your own? I'm doing the whole house myself, actually. I had to get permissions for the electrical and the plumbing, but that was more annoying than difficult."

Tom hums a little, unsure whether his surprise was out of line. Do muggles do their own tiles and electricity and plumbing all the time? Maybe the fashion magazines at Hogwarts weren’t the only thing outdated. He’ll have to ask Casey about it later.

"My Dad thinks I'm crazy," Barclay says, and it gives Tom permission to look impressed.

“Dads have to think that, don’t they?” Tom asks with a grin. Tom’s dad think he’s crazy for throwing away his perfectly good NEWTs to _chase around a tiny speck of gold on a broom all day, Thomas_.

"Well, mine thinks I'm crazier than usual." Barclay smiles again, but it's softer this time and he moves a little closer to Tom. He holds up two fingers to the barkeep, and glasses of the fizzy brown drinks come their way.

Tom rather feels like his time and affection are being bought, but the drinks are sweet and so is the company and he doesn’t mind. It's not like muggle flirting is all that different from wizard flirting, after all. He's bought people his own fair share of drinks from Mme. Rosmerta.

“I find I quite like a little crazy every now and then,” Tom says, recalling the feint just before he’d caught the snitch earlier. “Makes everything a bit more interesting.”

"That it does," Barclay says. "Although I think tequila was too crazy for you."

“It was not my brightest idea,” Tom allowed.

"I think tequila can go one of two ways," Barclay says. "It either seems like a great idea in the moment and a terrible one the morning after, or it seems terrible the whole time. I think you got the better deal."

“Are you promising me a good morning?” Tom asked, letting his lips curl into a teasing smile and his eyes blink slowly, lids staying a little hooded.

Barclay looks a little shy, but the slow turn of his lips is cocksure. "Well, the one room I have completely finished is my bedroom."

"That's very fortunate," Tom says. "Good prioritising on your part."

"I thought so." Barclay glances from the television box to his wristwatch and then to Tom. "Didn't you come with your friends? Are they going to mind you left before the end of the match? Only if we don't get a cab now, it'll be murder fighting these hooligans for one."

Tom’s a little surprised by the directness of the question, but he’s pleased anyway. Barclay is pretty and the fact that Tom can flirt with a muggle and take him home - or be taken home by him - is icing on the cake.

“They’re not so crazy about football either,” Tom says. Jake and James don’t even understand what’s happening, probably. Casey and Chet groan just as something seems to happen on the TV, but Tom’s sure their enjoyment of the match doesn’t hinge on Tom’s presence.

Barclay grins. "Excellent. I've been looking for someone to show my tile off to."

Suddenly, Tom is left to wonder whether maybe 'tiling' is a muggle euphemism as Barclay disappears to pay their tab -- something Tom hadn't even considered when he agreed to come along with Casey to the muggle world tonight; Chet would have had to pick up Tom's check anyway.

Tom uses the opportunity to sidle up to Casey and grab his arm and attention.

“I’m leaving,” he says. The frown line appears between Casey’s eyebrows.

“You not having a good time?” Casey asks.

“No, um, I’m going with someone,” Tom says.

Casey’s eyebrows shoot up and for a moment it seems like he’s going to say something, but then he just sighs.

“Be careful. Try not to have to Obliviate the poor bloke.”

Tom's brow creases as he glances back down the bar at Barclay. "Yeah, of course. You know me; I'm always careful."

“I know,” Casey says and claps him on the back. “See you in training then.”

"Yeah, see you," Tom says. "Make sure you reenact that Starfish-on-Stick for Chet. See if his aim's better than the Cannons' and he gets the ball right in yours."

Casey shoves Tom.

“Everyone’s aim is better than the Cannons’,” he grins. Tom grins back and then turns to make his way back to Barclay.

“Alright?” he asks, when Tom steps up close to him.

“Yeah. All good to go.”

They take a taxi, which is very exciting for Tom. He's never actually been in an automobile before, although he's read about them. He can feel every bump and dip in the road. Every corner they take makes him lean closer to or further away from Barclay with the force of it. That bit’s a bit like riding a broom.

It doesn't go quite as quickly as he would have thought, given how often these contraptions kill the muggles both inside and outside. It's a little terrifying when he thinks about it, and if his hand tightens over Barclay's thigh, then maybe he can play it off as excitement instead. Barclay at least doesn’t seem to think it’s anything irregular, if the way he places his hand on top of Tom’s and starts tracing the lines of his fingers, teasing the thin webbing in between, is anything to go by.

Tom tries to look down at their hands, but it makes his stomach feel a little dodgy to rattle around in this taxi without being able to see out the windows. He looks instead at the countryside rushing past, lit at paces by tall lampposts that don't flicker like flames or glow with the gentle consolidated light of lumos.

 _Electricity_. It’s by far one of the more fascinating things that muggles have come up with. It’s almost like magic, the way it can create light, or heat, or the moving images and sound of a television box.

“It’s a bit out of the way, sorry,” Barclay says, drawing Tom’s attention back to him.

"That's alright," Tom says honestly. "I don't mind." Up at the front of the taxi, their driver has music playing and it's strange, interesting stuff, noises that don't come from any sort of orchestral instruments that Tom's ever heard. It’s also nothing like the Weird Sisters or any other of the stuff he’s heard on the Wireless Network. Tom finds he sort of likes it anyway. It has an easy and infectious rhythm.

The muggle world is _big_. Tom knew that in an intellectual way, and of course he had to travel for hours every year by Hogwarts Express, but it's strange to see distance covered minute-by-minute again. It's strange to have to see it as an adult. Out the window of the taxi, field and fen go shushing past in near-absolute darkness, lit only by the occasional green flash of animal eyes catching their headlights.

Barclay doesn’t say anything and Tom’s not really sure what kind of conversation to strike up either. This part is far easier if all it takes is Apparating back to whoever’s house. There’s no time for the tension between two (or more) people to simmer into this low thrum that threatens to either choke Tom or make him say something incredibly stupid.

Barclay keeps playing with Tom's fingers, gently measuring them out and stroking the pads of his prints with soft touches. Tiny circled whispers of touch bring Barclay's fingers up to Tom's wrist, tracing over the blue veins.

Barclay laughs again, soft and smug, when he feels Tom's pulse spike.

It’s dark enough inside the taxi that Tom thinks the flush on his cheeks won’t be visible, so he turns his face to look at Barclay and smiles at him slowly. His belly and cheeks feel warm with heat he thinks may have at least a bit to do with the rum and cokes as well as the touch of Barclay’s hand on his, but he enjoys it either way.

"I think we're nearly there." Barclay's palm curls around Tom's wrist to hold him steady. "Y'alright?"

Tom hums, lets it rumble in his chest a bit.

“Very well, thank you. And yourself?” he says, primly. Teasingly.

Barclay's hand tightens and loosens, a flutter. "Good, yeah." Then he laughs full-out. "I'm a bit nervous to show anyone the house, which is silly. It's not, like, the point."

Tom can’t help the grin that replaces his more flirty expression. It is a little silly.

“I won’t judge your house,” he promises.

The car is still dark but seems to lighten a moment, a fraction, before Barclay leans in and kisses Tom's cheek high on the bone. "Thanks."

They slow and come to a stop then, and Tom is relieved to find that Barclay seems to have intended to pay for their trip all along. It saves him a lot of awkward posturing and excuses.

The night air is cool on Tom’s warm skin when Barclay holds out a hand to help him out of the taxi. Tom feels more unsteady on his feet than he’d thought, jittery in a way he hasn’t been in a while over a hook-up.

The house is small and square, a neat little countryside house. It isn't anything like Tom's parents' estate or James' fuck-off manor, but it's nice. Tom can’t see it very well without the help of daylight or any other light other than the moon peeking out behind a few clouds, but even like this, surrounded by nothing but nature and without showing off any of its details it looks... homey. Like it has history, and it’s been a happy one.

"Needs a paint job," Barclay says gruffly.

"I like it," Tom insists. "It has character."

Barclay snorts a laugh and mumbles something under his breath that sounds a bit like “you’ve got character”. Tom grins and fits his hand back inside Barclay’s. It feels massive holding his and he rather likes the feeling. He follows Barclay up the stone path and waits as Barclay unlocks the front door. It's a little strange that he would lock it, so far from anyone else, but Tom supposes that people got into strange habits during --

But the muggles didn't have the War. Maybe muggles just trust less.

The lock clicks shut behind them with a strange finality once they’re inside and Barclay has turned around towards it again. Other than their breathing the house is silent and the sound of the metal falling into place echoes in Tom’s head.

“Bedroom’s upstairs,” Barclay says, eyes glittering in the darkness.

Tom nods, looking around at the space. It _is_ in disarray, dropcloths and cans of paint everywhere and the faint smell of chemicals like potion on the air. But heavier than the turpentine and wood and dust, there's the familiar tang of something else in the girders and walls.

Magic.

It throws Tom off kilter a bit the moment he recognises it. Magic? Nothing about Barclay seems magical. It’s not like Tom’s intuition is a surefire way to tell of course, but... he’d been sure...

Barclay smiles and tugs on his hand and Tom goes with him, reaching a hand out to trail along the wall. The magic here feels calm and a bit dusty. Not at all the way it does at Hogwarts, or at home, thrumming with the energy of someone living and practicing magic there.

He's heard about people being tricked and kidnapped by dark wizards out in the Balkans, near Durmstrang, but it hasn't happened in England in fifteen years. Tom doesn't get that vibe off the magic here: there's nothing about it that feels dark and cold like some corners of the Slytherin common room even so many years after the War. It doesn't feel like the remains of Knockturn Alley that time that he and Jake went on a dare. Nothing in the tiny golden tinge here makes Tom's skin feel like it's crawling with scales and bitterness.

This would be easier if they had a code word, he thinks. There’s no way he can test Barclay’s knowledge of magic without revealing his own. Best case scenario - Barclay thinks he’s a nutter and kicks him out. Worst case scenario - the Ministry gets involved. He’s relatively certain revealing even just the slightest bit of magic to a muggle means breaking the statute of secrecy.

Barclay, to his credit, seems totally oblivious to Tom's inner turmoil as he chatters on about electrical plugs and soldering irons and rebars and whatever other nonsense words are coming out of his mouth. He flicks a little switch at the edge of one wall, and the staircase floods with light from overhead.

He looks down at Tom like he's expecting a response.

"Oooh," Tom says, dutifully.

Barclay’s smile is proud, so Tom thinks he gave the right reaction.

“And we’re not even in the bedroom yet,” Barclay says, pulling a laugh from Tom. He seems so utterly _guileless_ and Tom’s not sure if he should trust that instinct or if Barclay’s _that_ devious and lulling him into a false sense of security. Tom is no stranger to that tactic, but everything about Barclay’s smile when he beckons him up the stairs is open and harmless. There’s no pull that Tom couldn’t resist, none of the seductive magic of a veela or potion. The only thing in the glasses Barclay gave him were muggle drinks, he’s sure.

"Is your room more impressive than stairs?" Tom asks.

"No." Barclay's eyebrows waggle. "But I hope what happens there will be."

“Well, you’ve very impressive hands,” Tom says, running his thumb over the back of Barclay’s hand still holding his. “I’d say chances are good it will.”

Barclay's chest puffs, and Tom thinks... maybe it's silly, but he just trusts him. At least not to be a secret dark wizard.

“Well, then...” Barclay says and tugs at their hands, backing towards the stairs. Tom smiles and follows.

The feeling doesn't change in the base of Tom's spine as they move -- they aren't heading towards or away from any kind of magical hub, or artifact, or person. It's just a low-lying presence in the entire house. Maybe whoever lived here between Barclay as a child and Barclay now was a little old witch.

Tom decides to ignore it. There are better things to focus on now.

Like the calm new-ness of Barclay’s bedroom; the clean, soft blue of a fresh coat of paint on the walls, the warmth of the wooden furniture. The bed stood proud and center that pulls Tom’s focus immediately.

"What's your verdict?"

Tom looks up at Barclay, then toes out of his shoes and sits right down on the edge of the bed. "It's nice, yeah. All matches and a good color. Firm mattress. I'd give it full marks."

Barclay nods along with a serious expression on his face, though Tom can see the corners of his lips twitch as if he were holding back a smile.

“Good, good. Thank you,” Barclay says and toes off his own shoes before advancing on Tom, looming over him and then leaning down, putting a hand to Tom’s shoulder to push him flat on his back. Tom goes with it. He’s wanted the width of Barclay’s shoulders above him since he first saw them.

“Go on, kiss me,” he says when all Barclay does is look at him, propped up over him on hands and knees as he is.

"I'm savoring," Barclay protests. "You're the first person I've brought into my new room. I'm seeing how you look."

Tom rolls his eyes and pulls Barclay's head down until he can fit their mouths together.

Barclay makes a noise in his throat that starts out like protest but turns into contentedness somewhere in the middle. Tom does know what he’s doing with his mouth, if he does say so himself.

The kiss tastes like the remains of sugar and rum on Barclay's lips. He touches Tom's jaw to hold his head just so as the kiss slip-slides, a magic of its own kind blooming in Tom's belly. He lets his own hands follow the smooth lines of Barclay’s arms up to his shoulders, one of them coming to rest on his neck, the other one letting the short hairs at the back of his head tickle his palm as he pushes his fingers over Barclay’s scalp.

Barclay's mouth opens for him easily, letting Tom in. Barclay lifts him just as easily to move them more securely onto the bed, Tom spread across the middle cross-wise.

It’s a good mattress, which is probably not something Tom should necessarily notice when he’s got Barclay’s tongue in his mouth and his hands on his body, but it’s there anyway. Flits across his mind and then fizzles out again when he winds his arms around Barclay’s neck and urges him down.

It's a hungry kiss -- which Tom likes. Maybe it's the Slytherin in him, but he likes the rough scrape of stubble against stubble and he likes that Barclay lets his tongue count at his sharp teeth and he likes getting dizzy on shared breath caught between two mouths. There’s an exhilaration to it that’s not entirely unlike flying. It flutters in his belly and it boils his blood and Tom hums with the pleasure of it, bends a knee without making the conscious choice to, so he can cage Barclay in even a little.

Barclay makes a soft, good noise and nubs his nose against Tom's. "What do you want?"

Tom hums and flutters his eyes back open. What _does_ he want? He sort of wants all sorts of things, not all of which are feasible in one night. He’s also still keyed up from their earlier victory and starting to feel the ache from a game well-played creep into his muscles. He wants to push it a little deeper, get it to settle bone deep.

“Will you let me fuck you?” he asks.

Barclay's dark eyes flash in the near-dark as his pupils dilate, black and deep and wanting. Tom uses the leg he's already propped around Barclay's hip to flip them on the bed so that all Barclay can do is look up at him.

Tom leans down to kiss him again, knees either side of Barclay’s hips, forearms braced next to Barclay’s head. Barclay’s hands grab for his arse, pull his hips down against Barclay’s own.

“That a yes?” Tom murmurs.

"Yes, _please_ ," Barclay says, his breath hot against lips already sore from all of the kissing.

Tom likes that as well, likes actually feeling every aspect of physical activity. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s just coasting through, he wants to get his hands dirty. He grins to himself and hides it in Barclay’s neck, nipping at the skin there and pushing his hands underneath the fabric covering Barclay’s chest, pushing it up.

"I'm glad you offered," Barclay admits quietly. He starts on the buttons down the front of Tom's shirt. Their path brings his hands further and further down Tom's front and towards where his cock is compressed in the too-tight muggle jeans. "I love going out to pull but I always get embarrassed having to ask for it."

Tom looks up at him, considering the bright pink flush tinting Barclay’s cheeks, before he sits up and crooks his fingers at Barclay, gesturing for him to do the same so he can pull the jumper he’s wearing off over his head.

“Why are you embarrassed? It feels good. I’d quite like to make you feel good.”

Barclay removes the jumper like he's taking a second to think while the wool covers his face. "I guess people don't expect it. I don't like to disappoint people."

Tom looks at Barclay's chest when he's stripped off the shirts and lets his eyes feast on the broad, smooth muscle and faint dark hair and tiny pointed nipples all above ridged, fit abs. "I can't imagine that anything about you's disappointing."

Barclay smiles brightly and finishes undoing the buttons of Tom’s shirt, pulling it off his shoulders and then over his wrists before carelessly flinging it in the same general direction as his jumper.

“Same to you,” he says, lets his palms and fingers spread out over Tom’s pecs and the hair there, stroking them back up to Tom’s neck firmly and mumbling “Christ you’re fit”, before pulling him into another kiss.

He pulls back and sucks a breath through his teeth as he looks at Tom, feeling over all of the muscle. "You sure you aren't more into footie than you said? Secretly a Beckham?"

“No. No Beckhams in my bloodline, I promise,” Tom says. His mother had made him memorise the damn thing after all. If you woke him up in the middle of night he might not be able to tell you what day or month it is at first, but he’ll remember great-uncle Albert’s second wife Matilda’s third son Reginald who never amounted to much in the Ministry. Much to great-uncle Albert’s chagrin. He's not sure what else 'Beckham' means, but he presumes that 'footie' is, at least, football. He isn't part-Beckham, at any rate, surname or species-wise. It _is_ the same word Casey used to explain what had been happening on the television and Tom had easily identified that as football. Muggle Studies was _not_ an easy class, no matter what anyone claims.

But anyway, that's not important now. Important are Barclay’s hands and the way they're touching Tom’s skin all over.

Barclay has thick thighs, but they open so that Tom can fit between them as he leans down for another kiss as Barclay props up on his elbows. He bites at Barclay's bottom lip this time, tugs on it playfully. Barclay’s pleased hum vibrates against Tom’s chest, raising a line of goosebumps down Tom’s spine. If this is how the rest of this night is going to go then Tom can already tell it’s going to be a ten out of ten experience.

Barclay's fingers tease at the button that holds Tom's jeans closed. "Nice as you look in these, I think they'd look even better on my bedroom floor."

Tom nearly laughs. Of course the cheesy lines would be the same for wizards and muggles.

"Yes, please," he says, mimicking Barclay only minutes ago. "They make my ankles look wicked but they are really tight, aren't they? Normally I like a bit of a healthy breeze 'round my parts."

“A healthy breeze?” Barclay repeats and does laugh. He pops the button open as well though, so Tom doesn’t complain. “Does that mean you’ve got an array of little skirts at home?”

Tom sniffs. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Barclay tugs down the zipper.

“Right now I’d much rather know what’s under here, to be honest. Don’t much care about the packaging.”

Tom's cock springs gratefully out from behind the denim as the zipper releases. Barclay groans with the same sound of relief as Tom does.

"Look at you," Barclay croons, low and rumbling in his throat. "No pants? You're full of surprises."

Pants? Was Tom supposed to fit pants underneath these jeans? He’s glad he could wriggle his skin into them, to be entirely honest.

“You have no idea,” he says and leans in for a kiss. Barclay doesn’t seem to mind Tom’s faux-pas and Tom would like to quit while he’s ahead and just get out of these jeans already.

Barclay works them down over Tom's hips and thighs, but Tom has to move away to wriggle them over his knees and heels. While he's struggling, the noise of Barclay's zipper cuts through the dark.

Tom looks over briefly, at the red, skin tight, tiny shorts that come into view underneath Barclay’s own jeans and kicks the jeans still tangled around his feet off.

Barclay is gorgeous. It's something that Tom noticed, obviously, before this moment, but this is the look that makes everything in Tom's gut swoop, the buzz that tells him that the person he's about to have sex with is lovely, perfect, someone he wants. He wants to rub off against Barclay's thighs and spatter his belly with come. He wants to peel off his little red pants and suck him off. He wants to kiss his neck and tongue at his nipples and the whole night stretches ahead of him like a promise.

Definitely a ten out of ten.

“You’re bloody gorgeous,” he murmurs as Barclay kicks his own jeans off the bed and lies back again. Tom crawls on top of him, into the space between Barclay’s thighs that Barclay provides easily, without seeming to hesitate at all.

Barclay thanks him by capturing his lips in another kiss. This one is glancing, barely a soft bite like ice cream before Barclay's mouth slides all warm and wet down to Tom's neck to suck at his adam's apple and make Tom purr. Tom’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation of warm lips and then sharp teeth and a wet tongue on his skin. He thinks Barclay’s probably raising at least a bit of a mark, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll wear it proudly, if it lasts the night. And when he gets home, he can put a Concealment Charm on it to keep from getting the piss from Casey.

When Barclay’s lips leave their spot on his neck, however briefly it may be, as Barclay seems to intend to move further down, Tom pulls back and pushes Barclay flat against the sheets.

“My turn,” he says and ducks down to put his lips to Barclay’s skin.

There's already a faint salt taste of sweat, and Barclay's pulse is quick and heavy under Tom's bite. He worries at the spot until the skin is hot and he knows that when he pulls back, it will be pink. Pink enough to still not be gone by tomorrow and as Barclay has no access to Concealment Charms that Tom knows of, he’ll be wearing it for a day or two. The thought makes him giddier than a one night stand maybe warrants, but he likes that he’s here. That he gets to give Barclay something he doesn’t often get. That he’s the first to be let into this new bedroom. That the noises he pulls from Barclay are the first ones to sink into this fresh coat of paint on his walls.

Barclay's hands trace circuits over Tom's bare hips and bum and the crest of his thighs. The rough side of one thumbnail draws a line across a thin silvery scar that lines the join between Tom's hip and leg where a bowtruckle took offense to a small wizard boy hiding in his tree on summer hols years ago. It’s probably more that the scar is in an already sensitive place, but Tom has always liked attention being paid there and sure enough Barclay’s one hand halts in its exploration to let his thumb brush over the skin there repeatedly, while the other hand goes lower on Tom’s thigh.

Tom hums, quiet and happy with his lips against Barclay's throat. "I think I feel a little exposed, being the only naked one here." He braces himself on one arm and palms at Barclay through his pants with the other hand. "Think these are ready to come off?"

Barclay’s hips roll up into the touch almost automatically before he looks up at Tom and nods.

“Yeah. Yes, please, take them off.”

Tom tuts _lazy_ under his breath with a wink to cut the sting, and then he rolls the elastic of the pants down until Barclay has to lift his knees to help out. He drops the pants behind his back somewhere, more focused on how the lines of Barclay’s legs and torso come together now that they’re not interrupted by red fabric in between. Barclay’s almost too good to be true, spread out over his sheets comfortably, body strong and lean and all Tom’s for the night.

"You sure _you_ don't play footie?"

Wouldn't that be a story to tell the lads later -- if somehow Tom's wandered home with a muggle superstar and didn't even know.

Barclay laughs and shakes his head, his hair rasping against the fabric underneath him.

“No, definitely not. I barely know how the offside rule works.”

Tom doesn’t even know what that _is_ , so Barclay’s still ahead of him there.

"Besides..." Barclay reaches out for Tom again, big hands sliding up the length of Tom's thighs. "I've two left feet. I'm amazed I haven't fallen off the bed yet, honestly."

Tom grins and runs his hands up Barclay’s thighs, kneeing his way back in between them and lets his hands settle firmly on Barclay’s hips.

“I’ll just have to hold onto you tight, then.”

Barclay nods, his eyes wide and flooded with shy, confident desire. "Yes, please. Are you -- you're sure you're alright being on top?"

“Oh, darling, trust me,” Tom says and deliberately rakes his gaze over Barclay’s body, letting him see the full weight of Tom’s appreciation, “I’m definitely alright.”

Barclay's eyes search out Tom's face for a moment, one hand still skimming the reach of the scar on Tom's hip, before Barclay's brow relaxes and he melts down against the pillows again, biting his lip.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” Tom murmurs, reaching down for Barclay’s cock with one hand, keeping his firm hold of Barclay’s hip with the other. He circles Barclay’s cock with his hand almost lazily, takes in the firm heat of him and jacks him slowly, just to watch Barclay’s chest go tight with the sensation. “And you’re gonna make me feel just as good.”

A raw chocolate snap whimpers from Barclay's throat, and Tom smiles. He's good at this -- had to be, living in an all-boys' dormitory for seven fucking years -- and it's always better when he can really feel something crackling and brewing in the space between his body and the person he's with. The space between Barclay’s skin and his own feels charged enough to exert its own kind of pull and Tom only holds back to let the tension whip up a bit more before he plasters his own chest to Barclay’s, reaches for his mouth with his lips to steal another kiss from him.

It's the kind of pull that Tom felt the first time he lifted the wand that called out to him, was really part of him all along. He fits into Barclay the same way, the curves of their hard cocks flush together between their bellies.

This is already more intense than any of the last ten hookups Tom has had and he hasn’t even properly started to touch Barclay yet. Although thinking that feels almost untrue as though everything from the first touch of Barclay’s hand to his to them rocking their hips together now is as intimate as each other. As though Tom was already inside Barclay when they first touched.

“Lube,” Tom pulls his mouth away from Barclay’s to ask. This is getting out of control. “Where d’you keep lube.”

Barclay licks his lip again as though in wonder and points vaguely to the bedside table.

Tom riffles through a few strangely-static muggle magazines and sheets of tissue before coming up with the tube. It's almost exciting to know that he has to do this the long, slow way, he can't just mutter a spell and get things slick and safe --

Damn. He'll have to use a condom, because Muggles. It's alright.

There are some of those in the drawer as well, he recognises the brand even because it’s the same one Casey keeps around - which is not something he wants to think about now. He drops the tube and thin foil square onto the bed and swoops back down for another kiss, drowning out the memory of one of the most awkward conversations he’s ever had with the slick, warm sensation of kissing Barclay.

The taste of sugar is completely gone now, and so is the buzz of alcohol in Tom's veins. They might be drunk on each other, but Tom can feel and appreciate every movement of Barclay's muscles with pinpoint clarity.

It almost makes him want to laugh, the thought that if Casey hadn’t spoken up he wouldn’t have ended up here. It seems so strangely inevitable that he be here, in this bed. With Barclay.

He bites at Barclay's earlobe before asking, "How d'you want it? You wanna turn over for me or stay like this?"

Barclay shudders out a breath and lets his hands run down all along Tom’s back and grab onto his arse before he answers.

“Like this. Want to be able to look at you.”

Tom grins. "I don't blame you there, mate. I'm a fuckin' sight."

Barclay chortles a laugh and gives Tom’s arse a pinch that skirts the line between painful and turn-on.

“Humble too,” he says.

“Of course,” Tom grins and pecks Barclay’s lips before grabbing for the tube of lube and leaning back.

Barclay's thighs open and Tom runs his knuckles idly over the line of tendon for a moment as he struggles to uncap the tube with his other hand. Once he gets it, he squeezes a dollop of lube along two fingers -- and pauses.

"Does that smell like... cherries?"

"Tastes like it too, if you fancy." Barclay grins. "Or at least it's meant to."

Tom stares at his fingers for a second, stares at Barclay for another and pokes out his tongue, touching it to the lube.

“That does _not_ taste like cherries.”

Barclay laughs until he has to roll over and bury his face in the pillow to stop, his abs pretty as they tense and release with the giggles. Tom leans down and gives Barclay's ribs a scraping bite just because they're there. Barclay’s laugh turns into a surprised almost-squeal before Tom sucks at his skin and Barclay makes a noise of an entirely different kind and rolls back over.

“Are you done?” Tom asks, looking up at Barclay from where he’s hovering over Barclay’s skin, from behind his own eyelashes. He knows he looks good like this. Barclay’s nod and the flush high on his cheeks only confirm that.

Tom crawls back into the space between Barclay's knees and reaches down before anything else can happen to distract them. "Good. Just relax for me."

Barclay does so almost as instantly as if Tom had done more than just ask. His legs fall back open, accommodating Tom easily and giving him plenty room to move.

Even though this way is slower and the lube lied about tasting like cherries, Tom can't deny that it's just as effective as any charm might have been. And this way, he can feel more -- it's like he can trust better that Barclay's ready to let him in. He can feel the slide of his fingers ease as Barclay’s muscles give around them and more than that, he can see the transformation on Barclay’s face from vague discomfort to pleasure as his eyelids grow heavy and his mouth stays open around his panting breaths.

"Alright?"

"Yeah." Barclay's hips work down against Tom's fingers. "You can, like, a bit harder."

The request settles hot at the base of Tom’s spine and he clenches his jaw against the urge to bite. Instead he takes a shaky breath and does as asked, adds a finger and speeds up his gentle movements.

Barclay makes another sweet-rough sound in his throat. Tom curls the fingers enclosed in warmth, testing, searching. It takes a few tries, but it’s so worth it when Barclay gasps, tenses, his back bowing off the sheets a bit.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses before reaching out a hand as if to grab for Tom and letting it drop down onto the sheets instead, fingers curling into the warm fabric.

Tom grins, knees in closer. The hand that isn't busy strokes up over Barclay's belly and chest to follow the smooth line of his strong arm down until Barclay can clench onto his hand like he wanted.

“You feel so good already,” Tom says, voice pitched low and soft. “So hot. You’ll feel so good on my cock. We both will.”

One of Barclay’s legs sneaks around Tom, hooking behind his back and giving him a jolt forward.

“Come on, then,” Barclay says.

Tom spreads his fingers apart a last time and Barclay just groans, so he pulls them free and wipes them against the duvet before reaching for the little foil square.

If it weren't for Casey, he wouldn't know how to put one of these on. Now is emphatically not the time to think about Casey.

The second he’s got the condom on and shuffles forward to press the tip of his dick to Barclay’s hole all thoughts of Casey mercifully vanish from his mind, replaced only with sensations of hot and soft and the thrum of excitement in his veins. There’s a chant in the back of his mind reminding him to be _careful, careful, careful_ and he does his best when he pushes forward, Barclay’s body opening up to welcome him.

Barclay groans in one long, low note like the base chord of a harmony Tom wants to join.

“Still good?” he asks, voice a little tight while he sinks deeper slowly.

Barclay nods and his hands stretch around Tom's hips again. The bowtruckle scar feels hot under his palm.

Tom stills once his hips are nestled as closely against Barclay’s arse as they can go, taking a moment to catch his breath. He’s hot and tense all over and he can feel the sweat bead at the base of his skull, sticking to the hair at the back of his neck. He wants to make this _so_ good. He wants to make this the _best_.

He can feel Barclay's pulse all around him. Feel Barclay everywhere. The scent of them both is high in the air, only slightly disturbed by imitation cherry, which Tom doesn't mind. It's funny and plummy and ripe and it fits. He smiles and closes his eyes and leans down, his nose bumping into Barclay’s face and trailing over it as he feels his way to his lips for another kiss.

“Still good?” he asks again, more to tease than anything this time.

Barclay nods, lost to words. He holds onto Tom like he's a life buoy: a hand on his waist, a hand on his elbow; a hand around his bicep, a hand stroking up the back of his neck; hands everywhere. Tom strokes both his hands down the plane of Barclay’s chest in response before grasping hold of his hips firmly, the way he’d joked about doing earlier. Right now Barclay does look a bit in need of being held tight.

With the sigh of someone saved, Barclay's eyes close and he tucks his thighs up along Tom's sides.

Tom lets one of his hands follow the line of Barclay’s leg to hold onto his thigh instead of his hip, but holds him there just as firmly before he starts moving inside him.

"Ah, fuck, I needed this," Barclay mutters. His head tilts back, throat bared, and Tom can't help but to nip down for another lovebite. There’s so much skin on show, he can hardly be blamed for giving in to the temptation.

The buzz of Barclay's throat against Tom's lips is sweet and ticklish, like the drink they'd shared at the pub earlier, coating Tom's tongue the same way with the same caramel-sharp bite. It feels just as heady as well, stuffing Tom’s head with cotton and distracting him from the way he’s been moving his hips enough for Barclay to whine and squeeze his legs around Tom to remind him of what he’d been doing.

"Sorry, love," Tom breaths against Barclay's jaw. His lips will be chapped and rough-red from the prickling stubble, but Tom likes that. Part of what he loves best about good sex is the evidence the next morning, the ache in his muscles and the pink-gold of love bites and red crescents of blunt fingernails dug into his back. He loves the sea salt smell of it on sheets and even the sour metallic tang of last night's sweat on his clothes. If he could wear it all the time, he would.

He picks the pace of his hips up again, feels his muscles work to keep his thrusts smooth and deep, trying to angle for that bundle of nerves in Barclay’s body that had given him such a beautiful reaction earlier. It’s more difficult like this, but he’s nothing if not determined. The furrow of Barclay’s brow and the way he shifts his hips against Tom’s lets him know that he’s caught on and then, all at once they find it. Barclay’s face smoothes out, his mouth falls open as he sucks in a deep breath, tilting his head back a bit. He hisses, his arms surging above his head like he can't help it. Like he needs the grounding of the heavy wooden headboard to keep gravity working.

Tom follows, drawing up white lines that quickly fade to pink with the pressure of his fingertips along the insides of Barclay's arms until he can circle his hands around those broad wrists and hold them taut.

Barclay’s legs both come up to wrap around Tom’s back, holding him close, like Tom’s anchoring him down just as much. With the way his chest inflates on a big gasp it’s not completely out of the question that Barclay’s trying to take flight.

Tom leans down further, lets his forehead rest on the sheets next to Barclay’s head, feeling the ache and tension in his shoulders from having to hold Tom securely on top of a broomstick first and now braced above Barclay. His muscles sing with the exertion and he lets his weight come down to rest on Barclay’s chest just for a moment, allows himself a bit of respite.

"It's good," Barclay whispers to him, "You don't have to rush."

“Don’t want to rush,” Tom says. If it’s up to him they’ll be doing this all night. Or at least as long as he physically can.

Barclay laughs breathlessly. He clenches around Tom just to make him groan. "I like that idea. I don't have anywhere to be tonight."

Did Tom say it out loud? He didn't think so, but he's been known to babble when his dick's happy.

“Good,” he says around a grin, turning to nip at any skin of Barclay’s he can reach. “Want to keep you right here, underneath me.”

Even though Tom's relaxed and slow, Barclay sighs again and rolls his hips, working Tom's cock like a toy nudged inside him. Tom groans and stills pushed in deep to let him play. Barclay whines but doesn’t actually complain, just tightens his legs around Tom a bit more, using him as leverage to work his hips against, grinding on Tom’s cock. His forehead creases with the exertion and Tom leans down to rest his lips there, soothe him.

It's sweet.

It's too sweet for a bar hookup. Tom gives Barclay just another minute before he pulls almost all the way out and slams back in again, rough enough to jar that big headboard.

Barclay groans loudly, catches and holds Tom’s gaze. He nods and stretches his hands above his head towards the headboard again as if he’s really bracing himself.

Well. Tom wouldn’t want to disappoint, so he tightens his hold on Barclay and does it again; pulls out and pushes forward _hard_ , does it again and again and again.

They end up sliding up the mattress until they're almost sitting in each other's laps. The headboard keeps percussive time. They tuck their heads down against the other's neck like swans. Barclay’s arms don’t have to stretch so far to brace himself against the headboard anymore and he uses the new leverage to push back against Tom, to match his pace after a few stuttering starts.

They work at each other until their breath is just staccato panting and every thrust is full and deep and everything is sweat and slippery and the blankets are bunched up beneath them and --

Tom pops out. Snubs up against where he wants to be, but the angle's all wrong, too close.

Barclay just laughs and wraps his arms around Tom's shoulders. "I've got it. Your turn to lie down."

Tom wasn’t expecting that at all, but he can’t deny it thrills him when Barclay nudges him onto his back, climbs on top of him and sinks back down on his cock before Tom feels he so much as blinked. Barclay looks just as good up there as he had underneath Tom.

“Gorgeous,” Tom breathes, eyes locked on the thin sheen of sweat that shines almost golden on Barclay’s skin in the low light of the room. He grabs for Barclay’s hips on top of his for something to hold on to.

Barclay smiles down at him and starts moving his hips; more languidly than Tom had before but somehow just as intense. 

Tom can hardly feel his toes as every part of him rushes and thrums hot with pleasure. 

"You really like this," Barclay murmurs. The look on his face is broken-open wonderment. He scratches his short, ragged fingernails up through the shag of short hair on Tom's chest and over the dark puckers of his nipples. "You're really -- you like it."

“Bloody hell, _yes_ , I like it!” Tom bites out, following it by a breathless chuckle and a moan when Barclay’s muscles clench around him briefly. He gets his feet flat on the bed somehow, knees bent, to give him at least a bit of leverage to try and do something more than just lie there and enjoy the ride, as it were. He likes feeling part of it more than like it’s just sort of happening to him - even if it’s making his toes curl and his vision swim and his throat close up around a gasp as is.

Barclay keeps his hands moving on Tom, and it's like he's reading Tom's mind, reading his thoughts before he even has them -- touches a nipple at the moment that it would drive Tom mad, gets a hand around Tom's thigh to squeeze it tight, brushes his fingers over Tom's adam's apple to feel it buzz under his hand. It’s... a lot. It’s so much that Tom forgets about losing his rhythm the moment his hips stop moving again, too caught up in the literally breathtaking mass of sensation and pleasure crashing all through his body. His mouth’s moving like he’s trying to say something even though he has no clue what that could be at the same time that the world sways like someone hit him with a jellyleg jinx

He comes before Barclay does, their mouths within kissing distance, the air cycling between them hot and dizzying. He bites Barclay's lip when he comes, tugs at the soft plush pink skin there until the shivers stop.

Barclay's stopped moving, too, like he's letting Tom catch his breath. When he pulls back again, his lip is red. He clenches slowly around Tom again and the noise Tom makes at the sensation is enough that they both start to laugh again, breathless and joyful and wet-red tired.

"Are you close?" Tom asks. "D'you want my mouth instead?"

Barclay’s eyes flush dark with desire even as his hand grabs hold of his own cock, squeezing a bit to take the edge off the arousal Tom supposes must be bubbling right underneath the surface.

“You don’t... have to,” Barclay starts saying and Tom actually rolls his eyes before he catches himself and grins up at Barclay. It comes out a bit wolfishly, probably, but Tom doesn’t think Barclay minds.

“I really _want_ to, though. So will you let me get you off?”

Barclay nods and eases off of Tom. He takes the condom off, too, which Tom hadn't considered before, and ties it at the end before dropping it in the bin at his bedside. Then he crawls back up the bed until his face is level with Tom's, eyes sparkling in the low light. Even with the red, swollen lip, he leans down for another kiss, tongue gentle with him.

It’s easier for Tom to be focussed now, to listen for the catches in Barclay’s breath, to feel for which touches make him shiver and which make him press closer and rut against Tom’s belly a bit. He could get Barclay off like this as well. Just keep kissing him and reach down with his hand, either for his cock or his arse. God, there are so many things he still wants to do to Barclay, even with his own cock spent and the exhaustion of the whole day and night almost already caught up with him.

Tom can feel the hot pulse of blood in Barclay's lower lip when he tongues out against it lightly, the way that it's raw from being bitten, and he loves it. Barclay moans softly, rutting down against Tom's belly, and Tom grasps his hands around Barclay's bum to feel him move.

There's a bit of slick still slippery where Tom's fingers almost meet at the crease, and he's... curious. He's able to tuck two fingers deep right away, with Barclay so stretched out and loose from taking Tom's cock.

Barclay moans and shifts his hips - back onto Tom’s fingers and then forwards to rub his cock against Tom. Tom grins and starts moving his fingers more deliberately at that, tucks them in deeper even though his wrist cramps up almost immediately. Barclay makes the loveliest sound when he gets it right and brushes up against that spongy place inside him though, so it’s definitely worth it.

It's Barclay's turn to bite into the kiss this time, but he isn't Tom. He isn't a Slytherin. He isn't biting to tug and feel his teeth; instead, the bites are soft and needy scapes of tiny bones and soft skin and rough stubble.

Tom smiles against his lips and offers up his lips and tongue to Barclay’s touch, gets him back with sucking kisses and languid swipes of his tongue that he’s learned will make Barclay breathy and loose in the shoulders even while his hips are still working shakily. It's sudden when Barclay pulls back with a sob of _oh, god_ and tucks his face into Tom's neck. He makes barely a sound when he actually comes wet against Tom's belly. Tom pulls his fingers out of his arse carefully, putting his hand on the small of his back instead, helping him ride it out at first before he smoothes his palm up and down the expanse of Barclay’s broad back, offering some calm.

Barclay keeps his face hidden against Tom's neck for a few long minutes as he shivers and flexes his long toes and catches his breath.

“Good?” Tom asks, and means what they did and to ask if Barclay’s alright at the same time.

Barclay nods. He's still wrapped all around Tom like a cloak. "Are you?" He lifts his head. There's a crease from the pillowcase on his forehead, and Tom smiles at it. "I'm probably squashing you."

“Nah, you’re fine,” Tom says, shifts his arm so he’s holding Barclay more than just resting his hand on his back to drive the point home. “Warm.”

All the same, Barclay snorts and rolls them so that they're on their sides. They're still facing each other, legs tangled, and the slow trickle of come dripping down Tom's belly tickles him as it cools. It’d be so nice if he could just... Vanish it. Does he ask for a tissue? Is that bad etiquette?

"You're all sticky," Barclay says, grinning. His mouth looks like if Tom touched it with ice, it would steam, it's so red and hot. "D'you want a flannel? You're welcome to my shower, too."

“I’m not sure I can move,” Tom says, but grins. “A flannel would be nice though, yeah. Where’s the bathroom?”

"I'll get it," Barclay offers. He stands, and his thighs wobble. Tom grins and reaches out to poke at one of the thick muscles. Barclay sticks out his tongue and bats at Tom's hand. "I've to, er, clean up anyway. Back in a mo'."

Tom watches him walk out of the room with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. The ache settled deep in every last corner of his body tells him he’s done good today. He played hard and well and then... well, _played_ just as hard and well if Barclay’s unsteady gait and his own deep-seated satisfaction are any indication.

He stares up at the ceiling and takes in the silence. He's been in a Muggle house before -- Casey's -- but that was different, since Casey was there and they didn't have to hide so completely. This is a different sort of game, Tom thinks, to pretend to be something he's not. There's a gurgle in the wall like water rushing, and a quiet _whoosh_ from near the floor before warm air starts to flow through the room. Amazing. Even without a Hot-Air Charm, Muggles have the winter chill licked.

Tom lets his eyes drift around the room, looking for anything that might stand out. It’s a very tidy room. That stands out, maybe. Tom hadn’t necessarily expected it to be, not with how Barclay’s still working on the house, but he supposes if he had intended to bring someone back here tonight then it’s not so surprising he may have cleaned up a bit. Or maybe he’s just a naturally tidy person. Tom still sometimes forgets that he owns more than a trunk full of stuff now and thus needs to tidy more often, but generally he’s not a slob.

Tom looks towards the door to make sure that he's still alone, and then tiptoes out of bed and across the room to the rectangular panel by the door.

He flicks it, and the room goes over bright enough to make him blink and squint. He flicks it again, and he's back in the dark. He looks at the ceiling to where a few glass ornaments -- lightbulbs, he knows from his O in Muggle Studies, thank you -- are artfully arranged like the center of a flower with big wooden petals. He flicks the switch again a few times, on and off. On. Off.

There's a second switch beside the first, and he flicks that too.

"Oh!" Tom tilts his head, watching the petals of the wooden flower begin to spin. The air in the room rustles, the heady scent of sex dissipating. That is... very neat.

“I see you found the fan,” Barclay says from right behind Tom then, making him whirl around, magic whipping up in a surge of fight-or-flight before he calmed down again.

“Mer...cy me,” Tom says. Barclay only laughs and then gently nudges Tom’s body back towards the bed, crowding him towards it with his own. When Tom sits down, Barclay sits down next to him and reaches out with the warm, damp flannel to clean up the come smeared across his skin.

Tom smiles and touches Barclay's cheek. "Thanks. I like your house."

“I think it likes you too,” Barclay says with a smile. “At least I do.”

Tom lets Barclay kiss his nose before he looks up again. "Are you alright with me sleeping here? D'you want me to go?"

“No, of course,” Barclay says. “I’m not gonna make you wait for a cab and drive home. It’s got to be late. Stay.”

Tom kisses his nose back. "I like my toast dark and my eggs soft. Ta."

Barclay laughs and scoots back onto the bed.

“I can do that,” he says with a smile.

The duvet isn't as warm as Tom would choose for his own house, but the heat of the chest and arms that circle around his back more than make up the loss. It only takes a very limited amount of shuffling around until they’re both comfortable with the position they’ve ended up in, fuelled by sex-happiness as they are. Unsurprisingly, as soon as Tom lets the remaining tension drain from his body and closes his eyes, he falls into a deep sleep almost immediately.

 

The next morning, Tom wakes starfished across the mattress, devoid of blankets. Above him, the room is bathed in yellow light. When Tom grunts and turns his head to stare with bleary eyes across the bed, there's Barclay, his face still slack with sleep, coccooned in the sheets and duvet like a little bundle. Even as he smiles, Tom can feel the goosebumps blooming across his skin and he grabs for the duvet, intent on finding a corner to pull on and take a bit of it back. Barclay makes a dissatisfied noise, but people who want to sleep undisturbed need to learn not to steal the duvet. Tom pulls.

"Th'fuck!?" Barclay rolls onto the floor with a loud _thud_.

“Oh, shit,” Tom says and crawls over the bed to peer off it down at Barclay’s confused, sleepy face. He means to apologise, really, but he can’t help but laugh.

“I’m so sorry!” he says. “I didn’t realise you were rolled up that way.”

Barclay rubs his eyes with the heels of both hands like a disgruntled child. "S'alright. I like to start my day off with a bang."

Tom makes an entirely undignified snort and rolls back to stare at the ceiling before he can say something he might not be able to follow through on. He should probably leave... at some point.

He turns to look at Barclay again after the blankets hitting the bed indicates that he's stood up. "Are you okay otherwise?"

"I think I've got a fat lip," Barclay says thoughtfully, rubbing his mouth. "But I don't mind it." He stretches, naked and unashamed, his abs still delicious in sober morning light and his soft cock nestled in dark hair. "You said soft eggs, yeah?"

Tom grins and nods, letting his eyes roam over Barclay’s skin, since he’s putting it on display.

“Yeah, and hard toast,” he says, staring at Barclay’s firm thighs. No, wait... “Dark toast! I mean dark toast.”

Barclay winks and pouts his lips. The lower one is rather plump today after all. "Come off it, then; you'll inflate my ego." He turns to a chest of drawers and Tom gets a very nice look at his bum in good lighting. It's nice. Barclay steps into a pair of little bright green pants and snaps the elastic against his hipbones. He looks over his shoulder to Tom before saying, "The working shower's just across the corridor. It takes the water a minute to get properly hot. Just come down the stairs when you're finished."

“Thanks,” Tom says and stretches languidly while Barclay pulls on another pair of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. He doesn’t necessarily have to rely on the muggle technology in the bathroom. He could just spell the water warmer, if Barclay wasn’t going to be there, but Tom’s sort of... looking forward to trying out a muggle shower. He can totally do this. It’s not different, really, just there’s no faucets for the bubbles. Not that Tom has one of those at home either, but his parents do.

After ten minutes of frantically trying to control the temperature somewhere between "scalding his skin off" and "how is this not literally shards of ice," and another very frightening minute of trying to catch all of the plastic bottles and bars of slippery soap that he'd knocked into the basin with a flail as he was blasted with hot water, Tom decides that Muggles are, in fact, horrible at showers.

He manages to somehow re-arrange the plastic bottles and soap and while he was busy doing that the water temperature somehow changed to something far more bearable, though still a tad too cold to be how he likes it, so Tom does, in the end, manage to get clean. And awake. He’s definitely awake afterwards.

He dries with the towels that Barclay left folded on the countertop. There's a big bottle of green potion labeled 'Mouthwash' next to the sink basin, and Tom opens it with a curious sniff.

It's so overpoweringly minty that he wonders whether it might be poison, and he doesn't know what any of the ingredients are when he reads them in a handy list on the back of the bottle. _Poloxamer 407_? Give him goosegrass and mandrake root any day of the week.

It does say that he shouldn't swallow it, so Tom hastily spits into the basin. His mouth feels cold and almost numb.

Thus far, the worst part of the Muggle lifestyle is the hygiene. Give him a nice bath, please.

It’ll do until he gets home though. He’ll have to get back into his clothes from last night anyway, but with a quick look around to make sure that he really, really _is_ alone, decides to give them a little freshening up. There’s no reason he needs to smell like that stale bar smell that always hangs onto clothes, no matter how long you spend in the bar. Muggle bar smell is a bit different than the one Tom’s used to from his usual places, but it’s no more pleasant.

When he comes downstairs, he follows the smell of frying eggs into what appears to be a halfway renovated kitchen, Barclay standing by what Tom knows is the stove. It’s weird how muggles don’t cook over fire. He supposes when you can’t put it out instantly it makes sense you’d want to contain it.

"G'morning again," Tom says, coming up behind Barclay and slipping his arms around his waist. His cheek fits nicely against the broad plane of his shoulders. "Sorry again about pitching you out the bed."

“It’s okay,” Barclay says, smile audible in his voice. “Believe it or not that’s not actually the rudest awakening I’ve ever had.”

“I shudder to think,” Tom says and rubs his nose against the fabric of Barclay’s shirt. It’s very soft. Tom doesn’t really fancy moving.

"Well," Barclay says, "At least I didn't wake up to find you burgling me. That's happened once or twice."

“That happened more than once?” Tom asks, completely aghast. Well, that certainly explains the locked door.

"People you find in pubs can be dodgy," Barclay says. "I mean, look at you. You did physically throw me out of my own bed."

“You were hogging the duvet!” Tom says, incensed. “I’d _never_ rob you!”

Barclay laughs at Tom’s outraged tone.

“That’s good to know, I suppose.”

He shimmies a bit. "Eggs are done, and toast's about to pop, if you want to go to the table."

Pop?

It’s probably better not to ask, lest he give himself away, so Tom dutifully moves to the table and looks around for anything that looks like it might ‘pop’ toast.

He didn't realize that bread popped to become toast, but he's never seen it made. He's had popped corn, and bread's made of wheat. He'll have to tell James. No one puts away toast like James.

There’s a sudden noise then that cuts through the almost silence in the kitchen then and suddenly at the top of one of the small metallic boxes on the counter there are four pieces of toast peeking out. That’s not quite like popped corn, then. Huh. It's fascinating, though. The things Muggles will come up with to equip their world to get by comfortably without magic.

Despite the shower debacle Tom is still impressed, to be honest. He can’t even figure out how to “pop” toast and here they are, having invented an entire machine for it.

Barclay opens the refrigerator, which Tom recognizes from Casey's, and takes out butter and a pot of orange marmalade. Some things are universal, then.

"I made beans as well," Barclay says. "My specialty, obviously, beans on toast. I'm quite the chef."

Tom can’t tell if Barclay’s joking. He thinks so, judging by his tone, but without magic Tom would be lost in this kitchen, so he’s not sure he’s got any room to talk. Also, Barclay _did_ give him a bed and food. And orgasms, last night.

“Thanks,” he smiles.

They eat quickly and without googly-eyed romance, which Tom expected. He's starving after so much physical exertion yesterday, and toast with eggs and beans is about the best food in either the wizarding or Muggle worlds. The only thing that might improve it is a tall glass of pumpkin juice, but it’s pretty splendid as is.

Once they’re done Barclay offers to do the dishes and Tom thanks him for it profusely. He’d like to offer to help, but he’s not sure he’d not drop them if he had to handle them with his actual hands, so he ... doesn’t. Instead he takes to exploring the other rooms on the ground floor.

"Be careful," Barclay calls over his shoulder. "You might want shoes. There are nails and sharp bits where you wouldn't expect."

“Okay, thanks!” Tom calls back and then actually does go to collect his shoes. For one, he should really start to think about how exactly he’s going to make his exit, given that he doesn’t have any Muggle money and Barclay lives out in the middle of nowhere, and for another he’s learned to take Muggle warnings seriously. He doesn’t want to repeat the shower incident. He supposes that if worse comes to worst, he can send a Patronus to Casey and ask for Chet to please drive out in his car to get him, since they weren't _that_ far from the pub. All the same, he'd rather not. There are better things he can imagine than having his flat- and teammate’s brother pick him up after a night of sex with a virtual stranger.

The living room is a wide open space with old faded wallpaper almost falling off the walls, as if the magic still in the walls just isn’t enough anymore to hold it up. The fireplace seems like it’d be cosy once the renovations are done and -- wait. Is that... Floo powder?

Tom scans the floor for jagged nails and then jogs over to the sprawling brick fireplace. He crouches down and swipes a finger through the dust.

Yes. Dust and _Floo powder_. There's a little pot of it atop the mantel, too, when he stands.

Well... Barclay hasn't got rid of it. Maybe he's a Squib?

Well, so much for Tom having to keep secrets. Judging by the little marker on the fireplace, it’s even still hooked up to the Network. Looks like Tom has found his way home.

“Hey, Barclay!” he calls through to the kitchen. “Can I use your Floo?”

"What?" Barclay calls back. Something is churning water very loudly in the kitchen. "Oh, yeah! Can you find it?"

Well. Yeah. He has already found it, hasn’t he.

“Yep, all set,” he says, still raising his voice. Should he say goodbye, or...?

He scoops a handful of powder out of the flower pot and fishes his wand out of his jeans pocket. After a quick _Incendio_ , the flames crackle merrily with enough strength that Tom can toss in the powder and give the address to the flat he shares with Casey off Southampton.

The flames rise, bright green and quite in service to the Network, and Tom steps into the fireplace.

" _What the actual fuck are you_ \-- "

The last thing Tom sees before the Floo whirls him away is Barclay's slack jaw and two mugs of tea crashing to the floor.


	2. Tom Mann and the Drudgery of Wizarding Bureaucracy

** Tom Mann and the Drudgery of Wizarding Bureaucracy **

Tom falls out of the fireplace back home with far less grace than he usually does and lands sprawled out on the floor, covered in soot. A lifetime of travelling in spinning motions has made him all but immune to the discomforts of travelling by Floo but he did not imagine that just then, did he? Barclay was absolutely _shocked_ when Tom stepped into his fireplace which would make sense on the assumption that Barclay is a muggle who just lives in a magic house after all. One can forgive Tom for losing his balance under those circumstances.

Tom can hear Casey’s hurried footsteps thunder through the flat, but he can’t quite pay attention to them.

Merlin, this is. This is probably bad.

“Jesus Christ, Tom, you okay?” Casey asks.

Tom looks up from the floor. Casey. Sweet Casey. Sweet Casey who lives amongst the muggles. He'll know what to do.

"I'm going to jail!" Tom wails.

“Why are you going to jail?!” Casey’s eyes go wide. “What the fuck did you do?”

"He's a muggle!" Tom could just stay on the floor all day. It's safe on the floor. There are no muggles on the floor. Maybe the Ministry will take pity on him if he just stays on the floor. "He's a muggle, Casey."

"Well, yeah," Casey says. "I thought... that was kinda the point. Last night."

Tom wipes a palm over his face. It was. It was the point. Tom just wanted to... see what it’d be like. If he could do it, maybe. Well, he did it. He liked it too. And then he screwed it up.

“It was!” he says. “But he had... he has... there was a Floo and I just...”

"I was wondering how you got home," Casey mutters. He sits down on their squashy sofa and warms his tea with his wand. "Alright. Now, Tom, _slowly_ , tell me what exactly happened."

"Well, I went back with him to his, and we went upstairs --"

"You can skip that part, you dolt."

Right. Yes. Tom knew that.

“Right. Um, well, he made breakfast and then washed the dishes and I looked around the house, right? Cause he’s renovating it. All by himself! Without magic!”

Not the point, Tom remembers. Casey’s eyebrows seem to agree.

“So anyhow, there’s this fireplace. And there’s Floo powder! And there was magic in all the walls and such so I thought... he must be a squib then, yeah?”

"Alright," Casey says. "Well, if he's a squib, then he's not _really_ a Muggle. Isn't that the exception? So you're fine."

Tom takes a breath and feels it shudder in his chest.

“Yeah, so... I asked him if I could use his Floo, and he said _yes_ and then I do and he comes in the room and _freaks out and drops his tea_ ,” Tom goes on and wipes his clammy palm on his jeans. His stupid Muggle jeans that show off his thighs and his ankles and got him into this mess in the first place.

"He probably thought you said 'loo.'" Casey looks very proud of himself, but then catches Tom's eye and shakes his head. "Not the point. Alright, well. I don't suppose it would be smart to... Floo back and ask?"

“I don’t have his address, Casey,” Tom moans. “And anyway, no. I don’t think doing it _a second time_ will convince him he was seeing things the first time, or whatever it is Muggles are supposed to believe when they see magic.”

Casey makes a little grunt-like sound that Tom can’t really interpret.

“Sweet Merlin, what am I going to do?”

There's a little creak of noise, and then Casey pets Tom's hair where he's still lying face-down near the fireplace.

"You might not go to jail," Casey says. "You remember I told you about Lola, right?"

Of course Tom remembers hearing about Lola. Casey was heartbroken for weeks after she was Obliviated.

“I mean, it’s not exactly the same, Lola had to sign that thing when I told her... “ Casey trails off and huffs a sigh. Tom looks up from his place on the floor. Most people would probably like to be able to forget their ex completely but to know that if they passed on the street she’d never recognise him? That he’d been edited out of her life completely? It must ache.

“Anyway. There are people to take care of this sort of thing too, I bet. You can’t be the first wizard to stick his dick in a Muggle and fuck up.”

"But I... you didn't scare the fuck out of Lola, did you? You just told her where you went all year, and now the last seven summers of her life are gone." Tom looks at Casey's face. "Sorry."

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? They’ll Obliviate that part away as well,” Casey says.

“No, but... what if he tells someone else?”

Casey's hand pauses in his petting of Tom's hair. This makes the morning even more unacceptably tragic, so Tom butts his head up against Casey's palm like a cat.

"Well," Casey says. "Then, yes, you're going to jail. Hang on, I'll send a Patronus to Jake. He'll know how to stay out of jail, won't he?"

He did know how to stay out of detention, Tom’ll give him that. Casey was always far too Gryffindor not to delight in the fact that he’d earned detentions and Tom had stayed away from pretty much anything that could earn him them, but Jake... yeah. Maybe Jake’ll know what to do.

Tom grunts and nods and watches the white light at the tip of Casey’s wand take shape.

The crested capuchin tilts its head and stares with impassive, comforting eyes at the pair of wizards on the floor. Even though it isn't his Patronus, Tom still finds it comforting.

"Please go tell Jake, 'Tom's fucked up. Need help avoiding prison. Bring James if you like. Cheers,'" Casey instructs it, and then the Patronus is gone, wisping away wherever Patroni go when they're sent off as messengers. It's still a field of study, Tom remembers from DADA; until after the War, it was a secret weapon of the Order of the Phoenix.

“Merlin’s balls,” Tom groans then, startled by his own thought. “What if they kick me off the team? What’ll I do then?”

He thinks about sending his own patronus to his parents, to ask them for help, but... unless he really has to, he’d rather not. They’re already none too pleased with his career choice, if they learned of this they’d just hold it over his head forever.

"Well, let's focus on one problem at a time," soothes Casey, which is not soothing at all.

"You are not soothing," Tom says, his eyebrows low. "Keep with the head-pats, please."

Casey rolls his eyes, huffing annoyedly and making as much of a production of it as possible, but goes back to carding his fingers through Tom’s hair regardless.

“You would’ve fit right in with the cuddle crowd in Gryffindor Tower,” Casey says.

“Unlikely,” Tom scoffs.

Casey keeps petting for a few minutes. "That's true. You'd be a horrible Gryffindor. You aren't brave at all."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying," Casey says. "You're lying on the floor in a heap."

"Alright, then you can go to prison! Show me how brave you are about going to _prison, Casey_."

Casey has the audacity to roll his eyes. _Again_.

“You’re almost definitely not going to prison. The Ministry’s been dealing with this for ages. You’ll probably get a fine or something. Either way you’re not in prison _yet_ , so there’s no need to be so dramatic,” Casey says.

Tom just drops his head to the floor again. There will probably be a mark on his forehead.

Casey only just manages to pull Tom out of the way when their fireplace glows up green again so that Jake, and then James behind him, can step out of their Floo. Jake is missing one eyebrow and has bandages around most of his fingers.

"Thanks for the out, lads. We've got another infestation of pixies and I've been trying to catch them all morning. Only Syd's obsessed and keeps letting 'em free in her room. Seems to think they're cute." If Syd's involved, Jake never manages to look as disgruntled as he seems to want. He feels over the bare patch of brow with two swollen fingers as he steps right over Tom's prone form. "So, what'd'you do, Tom?"

“Floo-ed in plain sight of a Muggle,” Casey says, depositing Tom on the sofa. “Right,” he goes on, “I’m gonna go get dressed and you two can take care of this idiot for a few moments.”

It’s only then that Tom notices that technically, Casey had been only wearing underwear the entire time. He can’t be blamed for not noticing, he thinks. He was preoccupied and it’s not like he doesn’t see Casey in his underwear all the time, anyway.

And he himself still has no pants on under these infernal muggle jeans.

"Damn these muggle jeans!" Tom groans. "It's all my ankles' fault!"

James cackles and Jake slaps a heavy palm onto Tom’s shoulder.

“Trust me, mate,” he grins. “You’re cute, but you’re no Veela, ankles or no.”

"No," Tom grumps. "You're right. I'm a wizard. A stupid wizard and now I'm going to jail for it."

"Why d'you think you're going to jail?" James asks. He unwraps a chocolate frog and bites off its head. "D'you need another Potter card? Alright, alright, don't give me that look. I'm just saying, Casey's not in jail and he's fucked loads of muggles."

Tom sighs. Isn’t it obvious?

“Casey’s never Flooed in front of them. And Lola got Obliviated when they broke up.”

“Well,” James says, shrugging, “so we go tell the people who arranged that they’ll need to Obliviate this bloke too. Problem solved.”

Something twists in Tom's gut when he thinks about Barclay being Obliviated. It's just that Tom's too Slytherin to take well to being forgotten.

That's all.

He strived all night to be unforgettable after all. It’s just he doesn’t want the effort to go to waste.

“Yeah, I think an uncle twice removed or something did that once. Family scandal and all, but no one went to jail over it,” Jake chimes in.

Tom's surprised to hear that anyone in Jake's family _ever_ deigned to consort with a muggle. It's not exactly what they believe in. Tom's pureblood too, but Jake's brand of pureblood is... well. His dad's still in Azkaban. Has been since the Battle of Hogwarts.

At least Tom probably won't go to Azkaban. He'll just end up in the Ministry dungeons or something. Locked up with only rats and stale biscuits to eat. He'll wither without his broomstick.

Tom groans again and flops over to bury his face against the side of James' leg.

James starts petting at Tom’s hair almost immediately. Tom allows himself a small triumphant grin. He has trained his boys well.

“This does not look like you’ve come up with a game plan,” Casey says stepping back into the room, fully dressed this time around.

"Where's his summons?" James asks.

All three other boys stop. Casey looks down at Jake, and Jake looks at Tom. Tom looks up at them in hope.

"Did I get a summons?" he asks. "I've been face-down on the floor since I got home. Case, has there been an owl?"

"Not that I've noticed," Casey says. "I'll check the post in the kitchen."

Trust James to make the most sense without even trying. Tom hadn’t thought to check for a summons for a moment. He thought they’d just Apparate right in and take him away, Muggle ankle jeans at all.

Alright, maybe he _is_ a bit dramatic.

“No post!” Casey yells from the kitchen.

Tom scrambles up to a sitting position. "I still have time to run. Where should I run? Finland? What's the wizarding extradition treaty with Finland?"

"You're not going to Finland," Jake says, and he holds Tom down by the shoulders before he can get up and Apparate away. "We're going to the Ministry to sort it out, and you'll look responsible that way. It's just like that time me and James went to McGonagall to tell her about how we were the ones who put the Puking Pastilles in the Gryffindor team's pumpkin juice that one time."

"That was not one time!" Casey yells. "I was so dehydrated that Madam Pomfrey needed to give me a Saline Spirit!"

James and Jake share a brief, if wolfish, grin.

“Point is, she used to be Gryffindor Head, yeah? But she gave this whole spiel about how it was responsible to come forward and we only got two week’s detention.”

“Think this is a bit more serious than Puking Pastilles though,” Tom says, unwilling to concede a point. _The running always look guilty, so even if you are, don’t_ is a well-known Slytherin lesson.

"Is it really?" James asks. "So he gets a one-night stand taken out his head. You'll still remember it, won't you? Still got wanking material, and he's none the worse."

But is that true? Tom feels itchy and wrong when he imagines a future where someone doesn't remember having had sex with him when he can remember it. It seems... it's important that Barclay knew at the time, but it doesn't seem right that he wouldn't know what happened to him. After.

Tom’s never thought about the consequences of Obliviating someone so much. Or at all. Most of the war stories are horrible anyway and when people _ask_ to forget something that’s a whole other beast, but this...

He looks over to Casey, but his face is closed off and Tom can’t read him at all like this.

“I s’pose,” he says.

“Right. So, wash up and we’ll go talk to the Headmistress. Sort of.”

Tom showered at Barclay's, so he doesn't have much to wash. It feels good to have his regular clothes back, the safety of his robes and a clean jumper. He did like the way the jeans made him feel confident, though.

The boys are waiting for him by the fireplace when he gets back. They’ll Floo right into the ministry lobby; it’s easiest that way. It always takes a bit longer for the magic to hook in and pull when going to the ministry but that’s to be expected. The fireplaces there are busy.

Casey drapes his arm around Tom's shoulders. "You ready for this?"

"Probably not," Tom says. "Does it matter?"

"Nope." Casey always sounds so cheerful. "Borrow a bit of my Gryffindor, mate, and suck it up."

If only that’s how it worked. Tom supposes there’s no harm in trying and moves forward carefully, so Casey’s arm doesn’t slip from his shoulders. Casey takes the hint and leaves it there. They knock together so much in the whirl of the Floo that finally Casey just wraps Tom up in a tight hug rather than risk his Keeper elbows slamming against the sides of fireplace after fireplace.

Tom won’t say it out loud, but it does help, a bit. By the time they’re stepping out into the Ministry - it looks less gloomy than Tom remembers it being when he was a child, but he’s never sure if that’s because of his memory or the War - he feels a bit better. If he’s going to jail, at least Casey will come visit him. James and Jake will probably try to sneak him a cake with a wand in it, even. It won't be so bad. At least he'll get to eat some cake.

“Okay, so... Department of Muggle Relations, right?” James asks, staring at the huge board that flashes bright orange and lights up their path for them as he says it. Very helpful, that.

"Yeah," Casey says gruffly. "It's on Level 3. Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."

 _Catastrophes_. Tom thinks back to the way Barclay's eyes looked last night when he realized that Tom really wanted to be there, really wanted to be inside him, _was_ inside him. Now it's a catastrophe.

It doesn't feel like it was a catastrophe. It felt - feels - pretty exactly like the opposite of a catastrophe, actually. Tom wouldn’t go so far as to call it a miracle, because he knows how magic works and there are no miracles, but it was, maybe, it’s own brand of magic. The one that happens when you don’t mean to and you’re not looking.

How did Casey even cope? After so many summers with Lola, to have to come here and know after that they were all... gone?

Tom had felt magic in that house. Things aren't ever really gone. It's the reason there even was a War, isn't it? The reason wizards are supposed to be secret, too. Tom always agreed that the Statute of Secrecy was probably for the best. The Muggles had evolved their weapons technology so far, if they wanted to cause trouble for the wizarding community they probably could. It’s not all stakes and drownings anymore. Now there are bomb that can wipe out entire plots of land. Tom remembers the Big Muggle Wars they’d talked about briefly in Muggle Studies. So Tom does see the point of secrecy, but part of him wishes Barclay didn’t have to forget. That Tom could... go back, even. Maybe.

"It's probably good we're here," James muses, too loud for Tom's thoughts. "They can check you for those Muggle diseases. Those ones you get from bum sex."

Tom just sighs. Casey smacks James across the back of the head.

“Bloody hell, James, they’re not Muggle diseases. Never heard of Harpie’s Rash?” Casey says. “Plus, I taught you lot about condoms. Out of all of you, Tom’s most likely to remember.”

He turns to Tom then, eyes wide and hard.

“You did remember, right?”

"Yes, I remembered," Tom says through gritted teeth. He looks over his shoulder at the very, very elderly witch squinting up at the signs just beside them. She's wearing a swan on her head. Not a swan hat: it seems to be a live swan.

“Alright. Good. That’s... good,” Casey says and then heaves a heavy sigh. “Third level then, lads. Let’s get moving.”

They all fall into step on the way to the lifts, years of training separately and together adept at making them move like a unit.

Tom feels a bit better once they're in the lift because it's clear that really, as far as things go, his is probably not the worst magical accident or catastrophe of the day. There's an old man with tiny teeth and an Irish accent who seems to be getting slowly eaten by a bicycle, for one thing.

Casey stares for a second but averts his gaze when the man grins at him with his tiny teeth on full display, looking like he’s about four seconds away from sharing his life story. Tom hears him mutter about ‘bloody wizards’ when the man gets off with them and then turns right. He seems like he’s been here before. He's wheeled himself about four paces down the corridor before James, Jake, and Casey all burst into laughter.

“Well, at least you’re not coming in with the Muggle still attached to you,” Jake says with a grin.

"Wouldn't that be something?" James asks. "Imagine not being able to get your dick out from someone after sex. What a nightmare."

They all laugh again. Tom doesn’t think now’s the time to bring up their lessons on Breeding from Care for Magical Creatures.

"Alright, alright," he says. "Which department, do you think? Should -- I guess just straight to Obliviator Headquarters?"

It still feels like there's a stone in his stomach, like Tom's turning over and over a bezoar of his own. Only he hasn't been poisoned. And he isn't a goat.

“Probably best. They’ll send you there anyway, most likely,” Casey says, watches at the board that lights their way up bright orange again and stalks down the hallway. 

Tom follows him. He tucks his hand into the pocket of his robes to rub along the knots on his wand for comfort, just a nervous gesture. They won’t... they won’t take his wand away, will they?

He takes a deep breath and catches up with Casey. No use worrying about it as long as he doesn’t know. Right.

The interior of the office is sparse and white, like they're trying to create as little to remember as they can. A row of cubicles stretches behind the welcome desk, where a helpful-looking witch with a kind smile and a bowl of peppermint humbugs is patting the head of a post owl who's just delivered her a stack of papers.

“Hello, boys,” she says. She doesn’t look much older than them. “Do you need to report a Catastrophe?”

“Er, yeah,” Casey says, the first of them to find their words. “Sort of.”

“I used a Floo in plain sight of a Muggle,” Tom says, stepping forward. It’s his mess, after all.

"How many Muggles?"

“Just the one,” Tom says.

"Alright, dear," the witch says. "I'm going to send you across the corridor to the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee for now, alright? Take a humbug. Chin up!"

Tom takes a humbug without thinking. Casey gives him eyes like he’s not sure what Tom’s doing. Tom isn’t sure what he’s doing.

“Thanks,” he says to the witch and smiles for good measure before turning around and leading them across the hall.

"Muggle-Worthy Excuses, that doesn't sound so grim," Jake says. "Maybe you can even boff him again when you turn up to tell him your muggle-worthy excuse."

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Tom says and walks up to the with behind the help desk. She’s eerily similar to the one he’d just talked to, like she’s been copied just like the rest of the office layout has.

“Hello, how may I help you?”

"I, er, I used the Floo right in front of a Muggle?" Tom tries again.

"How many Muggles?"

"Just the one," Tom says again. "One er, very surprised and alarmed Muggle. If that makes a difference."

She sighs and hands him a roll of parchment and a Longlasting Quill.

“Fill out those forms and come back. There’s a table over there,” she says, gesturing towards the corner. Tom grabs the stack of papers, shuffling over and starts filling out. Name, age, occupation, number of Muggles involved, what type of Breach of the Statute of Secrecy has occured (please check all appropriate). The quill scratches away while Tom fills out the form, Jake and James blatantly reading along over his shoulder. Tom only halts when he gets to question fifteen subsection B - Please explain how the Muggle came to be in a wizarding dwelling.

"Yeah, how did that happen?" James asks. He's very heavy where he's leaning all of his weight on Tom's shoulders. "Why was there a pot of Floo powder in a Muggle house?"

"He's renovating it," Tom says.

James blinks at him.

"He's Transfiguring it to be like new again, but using Muggle methods."

“Sounds like a lot of work,” James says. Tom would shrug, but suspects his shoulders wouldn’t move under their weight. He doesn’t try.

“It is.”

“Still doesn’t explain why there was Floo powder there. Do Muggles use that for their... renovating?”

“Don’t think so,” Tom says with a frown. He shakes the ballast from his shoulders and makes his way back over to the counter.

“Um,” he says, trying for the witch’s attention. “We weren’t in a wizarding dwelling. We were at his place - a Muggle house? So, I don’t know how to answer fifteen B.”

"Skip ahead to 25A," she replies. Her smile looks like she's Charmed it in place. "Take a humbug."

Tom takes a lemon humbug and scans down the page to 25A, but immediately shakes his head. "I didn't bring the wizarding material to his house. It was just... there."

“That’s impossible,” she informs him. Tom frowns.

“But it was already there. The fireplace was active and the Floo powder was there in a little pot. It looked like it hadn’t been used in a while, but I didn’t bring the powder with me. _It was already there._.”

Her smile melts from her face. "Hold on just a moment, please." She tuts and a little Scops owl scampers over to her, beak at the ready. She scrawls a notice, stamps it with a very official-looking stamp twice, and places it in the owl's beak. "Isinu, take this across the corridor to the Muggle Liaison Office, please."

They all watch the little owl flap his wings and then take off, soaring out through the door and around the corner, down the hall. When they turn back the smile is back in place on the witch’s face.

“It’ll only take a moment,” she says.

Tom nods. He takes another lemon humbug just for something to do.

It really only is a moment before Isinu is back, circling around the witch, dropping a note on her place and accepting a treat in return before returning to his perch in the beams above their heads. The witch unfolds the note and then smiles up at Tom.

“Please go see Mr. Weasley in office 253 down the hall. He’ll be able to help.”

Weasley. Weasley like the Weasley-Weasleys, probably. Weasley like... related to Ginny Weasley. And the rest of the lot, obviously, but Tom mainly cares about Ginny Weasley. Ginny fucking Weasley the best Quidditch correspondent in a hundred years. Hall of famer. The star of the profession Tom is in.

And now someone related to her is going to snap his wand and send him to prison.

This is categorically Not Tom’s Day.

James, Jake and Casey all exchange obvious glances behind his back. Tom may not have eyes back there, but he’s a Seeker, damnit. It’s sort of his Thing, this whole ‘I know what’s going on behind my back’ schtick.

“Thank you,” he says to the witch and turns around to march to what is starting more and more to feel like his doom. If this were an easy situation to resolve, it would be resolved by now, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t get shuffled through the Departments.

Together, he and his boys trudge across the corridor again and follow the lit orange squares to the Muggle Liaison Office.

This room is much less clinical than the previous two, but altogether more imposing. It's full of Muggle artifacts, for one thing; there are so many glass display cases of bits and bobs and odds and ends that Tom feels a little claustrophobic. He's going to die in an avalanche of telephones and toast-popping machines.

James and Jake stare with unabashed curiosity. Tom isn’t really feeling his usual fascination with Muggles right now, but then again they’re not the ones possibly going to jail. Casey looks... actually he looks close to smacking his hand against his face like he does when they’re being idiots.

"Come on, Fiddle and Faddle," he says, putting an arm around each James and Jake. "We can look at the perfectly normal household items once Tom's in the clear."

The door to their left opens then and a tall, gangly man with hair that’s more white than red approaches them. He’s smiling, at least.

“Which one of you is Mr. Mann, then?” he asks.

Tom steps forward.

“Er, me, sir,” he says.

"Good morning, then," says who must be Mr. Weasley. He shakes Tom's hand between two of his own. "It's early; have you eaten? I just got a brand-new toaster that's charmed to work in the office. Would you like toast?"

“I’ve eaten,” Tom says, thinking of Barclay _before_ he’d managed to cock it all up.

“I haven’t,” Jake pipes up. Tom almost stomps on his foot, but Mr. Weasley seems delighted and proceeds to pull a metal box off the shelf.

"Come along then to my office, and we'll have some toast and a little chat."

This... is really bizarre, considering Tom might get sent to prison on the other side of “some toast and a little chat.”

And to think that it all started with toast, too.

Or, well. It started with bumming, really. Or it started with winning Quidditch, and then alcohol, and then bumming. But it has steadily involved toast.

At any rate, Tom follows Mr. Weasley, Jake and James into the office, Casey trotting in after him, seemingly trying very hard not to grumble or roll his eyes at the display of enthusiasm and wonder of the three men fussing over a toaster. Mr. Weasley slips four slices of bread into the slits on top and then pushes a lever thing at the side before sitting down behind his desk. James and Jake look confused.

“Now we wait,” Mr. Weasley beams.

“Wait?” Jake asks.

“Yes, yes, it takes a minute or two,” Mr. Weasley says, still smiling and then turns to Tom. “Well, why don’t you sit down and tell me your story.”

"Er," Tom says. "How much detail do you need?"

"Only what pertains to the incident, really, but as much detail as you can about how the incident occurred," Mr. Weasley says. "I gather from your forms across the hall that it transpired after you spent the night in a Muggle dwelling?"

“Yes,” Tom says and swallows the urge to tack on a ‘sir’ for good measure. He really hopes he’s not blushing. Mr. Weasley’s eyes twinkle like he doesn’t need more details on the night Tom spent there to have a good picture of what went down.

“The, er, morning after I was wondering how best to leave because I had no Muggle currency on me, which I realise was stupid and irresponsible, but... anyway. I’d felt like there was magic in the house the night before and then when I found the Floo I asked if I could use it. I assumed he was a squib. He, the, er, Muggle, told me I could, but he must have misunderstood, because when he saw me do it, he seemed quite... shocked.”

"Ah, yes," says Mr. Weasley. "He won't have been the first Muggle to hear 'Floo' and think 'loo,' but that usually happens in a wizarding house. You say you felt magic in the house?" His face goes over a little grave despite his smile lines. "Did you feel any sense of foreboding at all? Spots of cold or anything else to make you suspect it could be Dark magic? Can't have a Muggle stumble on anything dangerous."

The toast pops. James about jumps out of his skin.

Mr. Weasley smiles kindly and stands to put the slices of toast on a plate before returning to his seat and returning his attention to Tom.

Tom shrugs.

“No. I’d thought the same thing last night, but nothing seemed like that at all. None of the things they’d taught us in DADA and Barc-- the Muggle seemed genuinely unaware of the magic.”

Mr. Weasley hums and hands around the toast. Tom doesn't really want more popped toast. "But you say he had a working Floo and powder to use it?"

“Yes, sir. It was just sitting there,” he says. “He said the house belongs to his parents but they haven’t lived there in a long while. Maybe whoever had lived there in between had been a witch or wizard?”

Mr. Weasley looks no less troubled. "Did he say when... it's unusual that they would leave good Floo powder there. And you say that he's ennervating the house, but hadn't removed it himself?"

“Renovating,” Tom hears Casey mumble under his breath.

“Um, no. I don’t think he’d gotten around to that room yet,” Tom says.

Mr. Weasley nods slowly. At his side, a self-scribing quill takes down information on a long roll of parchment. "Did you notice any other magical paraphernalia in the house?"

“No,” Tom says. He’d not noticed much other than Barclay the night before. Or this morning, if he’s honest.

“Any strange behaviour from the boy?”

“No, nothing,” Tom says again. He was really good in bed, but he doubts that’s relevant.

"Alright," Mr. Weasley says, and he picks up his parchment to read it over. While he's reading, the quill hops over to rest in a bottle of ink like it's a hot bathtub. "We will need to bear further consideration on this house, but it sounds as though firstly there was a problem with the Floo network. What was the address?"

"Er," says Tom.

Mr. Weasley looks up. "Do you know the surname? You said it was a family house?"

Jake, James, and Casey all look pointedly at Tom. James has crumbs all around his mouth.

"Er," says Tom.

Tom is definitely blushing right now.

James and Jake are snickering, while Casey looks torn between scolding Tom and joining in the laughing. Well, next time Tom will know to remember address and family situation of his one night stands, just in case he needs to inform _the Ministry_ of them.

“Um, no,” Tom says.

Mr. Weasley is still smiling, but it looks less Charmed on than the witch just before.

“Well, do you know where you were?”

Tom looks over at Casey.

“Exeter?” he says. That’s what Casey had called it, right?

"Yeah, we were near Exeter," Casey says. "We'd just won a match against the Cannons."

"I'll avoid telling my youngest son that part of the story," Mr. Weasley mutters. "Alright, so in a Muggle radius from Chudleigh, then." He consults a roll of parchment slips. "Mr. Mann, I'm going to send you upstairs to the Floo Network Division and have them run some scans to see where you last traveled. I assume that after you took this mysterious Muggle Floo, you went home?"

"Yes," says Tom.

"And can I assume that you know the address there and _your_ surname?"

Tom looks over at James, _daring_ him to mention the time they drank so much Drakonskaya liqueur back at school that Tom did, literally, forget his name. " _Yes._ "

“Very well then. They’ll be able to figure you out. If nothing else works, they might have to pop over, run a few spells over your fireplace,” Mr. Weasley says. Tom nods along.

“Well, then. Floo Network Authority is up on level six. Tell Mr. Bercilak I’ve sent you.”

"Alright," says Tom. He rises, and reaches down to shake Mr. Weasley's hand again. "Thanks for your help." He pauses. "Er... how likely is it that I'll be sent to jail for this?"

Mr. Weasley looks surprised. "Do you think you deserve to be sent to jail?"

“I, er... hope not?” Tom says. It was an honest mistake but that’s not how it works, is it? There are rules and consequences for when you break them.

"It sounds to me like you didn't intend this Muggle boy any harm." Mr. Weasley's smile is genial. Tom likes him. "It's just the Ministry's job to make sure that no harm comes to either of you. To any of us, wizard or Muggle. We'll sort it, Mr. Mann."

That sounds promising. Promising enough that Tom feels a weight lift off his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Tom says, a bit too sincerely maybe, and shakes Mr. Weasley’s hand.

"Off you tut!" Mr. Weasley says, clapping Tom's hand. "I don't think the Montrose Magpies can afford four players missing practice. Better take care of this as quickly as you can."

Well, it’ll only be Tom missing, if it comes down to it, won’t it? But Tom knows a dismissal when he sees one, and so he turns to leave, Jake, James and Casey trotting after him.

Out in the corridor Casey throws an arm back around his shoulders.

“See? No jail time for you, probably. It’ll turn out alright.”

Tom nods, but his stomach hardly feels better. He doesn't want Barclay to be Obliviated, he doesn't want to have caused him any harm, even if he does forget it later. That doesn't make the event un-happen. Matter of fact, it feels a bit like the forgetting _is_ the harm that Tom is causing.

“Yeah,” he says and tries on a smile for size even if Casey is probably the only person he knows who’ll understand somewhat how Tom’s feeling right now.

Casey busses Tom's cheek. "There's my cheeky chappie. Let's get to the lifts."

They do get to the lifts, James and Jake chattering away about the toast and how weirdly long it took and don’t Muggles get frustrated that they have to wait for everything all the time?

“Texting’s instant,” Casey says as they step on the lift. “So’s the internet.”

“Level six,” Tom says and the lift takes off.

"Yeah, but we get everything instant," Jake says. "That's better."

"Better than instant porn?" Casey asks.

"I can get instant porn," James brags. "Any time I see a witch and there's a nearby Apparition point back to my bedroom."

The lift attendant -- who is a witch -- gives James a look that could rival the Unforgivables. James gives her a charming grin and a wink. The witch, a pretty girl with thick black hair and dark skin, is decidedly not charmed.

“Any time, huh?” Casey grins.

James brushes some toast crumbs off his lips. "Well, when the conditions are right."

Tom rolls his eyes and sees the witch do the same.

“Level six, Department of Magical Transportation. Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, Apparation Test Centre,” she announces when the lift stops.

James blows her a kiss when he alights the lift. Casey rolls his eyes and pushes Jake out to follow him.

"Sorry about them," Tom says. He hands her a lemon humbug from the stash in his pocket. "Thanks."

She looks at him a little weirdly and the lift doors almost catch his robes as they snap shut behind him. Alright then.

“Floo Network Authority’s that way,” Casey says and points down one corridor. “Let’s go.”

The flooring on this level turns purple to show them their way, and it's much busier up here than down below. There are officious-looking older witches and wizards walking at a fast clip in twos and threes, quills taking down dictations on parchments floating ahead of them. It makes Tom uneasy all over again, but he thinks of Mr. Weasley’s assurance that it’d all be worked out to everyone’s advantage and stalks down the corridor, dodging official looking people and looking out for a help desk the way they’d found below.

What he finds is a heavy wooden door with the words “Floo Network Authority” neatly emblazoned on the door frame above it.

He knocks.

"Ay-up!" Someone calls from inside. "Open!"

Tom opens the door and shuffles inside a little nervously. There’s a tiny old man sat behind a large wooden desk, papers fluttering to and from the shelves behind him seemingly at random. They probably have a system. Tom doesn’t dare ask.

“Er, Mr. Bercilak?” he asks.

"That's me, unless you need something."

“... Mr. Weasley sent us,” Tom says.

Mr. Bercilak looks up.

“The lad with the Muggle Floo? What took you so long?”

"The lifts," Tom says, and beside him Casey coughs a cough that sounds suspiciously like _everything instant my arse_.

“Yes, yes, well. You’re here now. Now, Arthur said you’ve not a fluttering idea of an address or a name, so I’m going to need you to hold onto this and not move. This might tingle a bit,” Mr. Bercilak says and hands Tom a sprig of hazel with some sort of crystal dangling from the end. Mr. Bercilak himself unrolls a map of the Isles and waves his wand over it, murmuring something Tom can’t make out.

A sensation that’s a bit too sharp to be ‘tingling’ runs through his hand then before his hand’s pulled forward as the crystal snags on the page, the ink there revealing a layout Tom knows too well.

“Honeydew Lane?” Mr. Bercilak asks.

“That’s where I live. Where I went to from... the Muggle’s house.”

"Quite, yes. Now you might want to get a good squeeze on one of your friend's hands, as this won't be pleasant."

Tom reaches out for Casey and grips his palm hard. This time the 'tingling' feels more like a bowtruckle is clawing its way up the inside of Tom's arm, and just when he's about to break Casey's fingers, it stops.

More ink pours onto the page.

Mr. Bercilak frowns at the parchment. "Dear me."

Tom glances down at the map that’s growing more and more details. It seems like it worked fine to him. He’d also rather not have to do that again.

“Well,” Mr. Bercilak says and looks up at him with a strange sort of kindness on his weary looking face. “We’re going to have to look into this a bit more, lad.”

“Okay?” Tom says.

“We’ll report this back to Muggle Liaisons and they’ll see about your little paramour. We’ll get in touch,” he old wizard says.

Casey lets go of Tom’s hand then, flexing his fingers, and Tom hands back the sprig of hazel.

“Just... be cautious, the next days,” Mr. Bercilak says as he packs the map and hazel away. “Watch each others’ backs.”

"Are you -- sorry, are you saying he might be dangerous?" Jake asks. "'Cause Tom's not dangerous, I promise."

“Your friend here used a fireplace that hasn’t been active in seventeen years, boy,” Mr. Bercilak says, face grave. “It might be nothing, but it might not. Just a friendly word of advice. Stay vigilant, all of you.”

All of the boys look at each other. _Stay vigilant_. It's a phrase that has haunted the corners of the wizarding world since before they were born, and even after The Chosen One vanquished the Dark Lord. It's something that everyone in Casey's House at Hogwarts told him about the Slytherins. And it's something the Slytherins were told about each other. They all had their reasons for not wanting to be caught unawares, regardless of the side they’d chosen - or, in most of their cases, that had been chosen for them.

Tom feels an entirely different kind of dread curl up in his stomach. How could a night as ecstatic as last night end up triggering such a nightmare?

They queue up for the Floo home in heavy spirits. Jake doesn't even try to get them to go to Diagon Alley instead for a butterbeer and some Fortescue's.

They tumble out of the fireplace at Tom- and Casey's flat one by one and stand to brush soot from their robes in silence.

“Well,” James says, raking a hand through his hair to catch any lingering soot. “That was quite the trip.”

“Tommy sure knows how to choose his bed mates, eh?” Jake adds, grinning, clearly trying to lighten the mood. Tom doesn’t have the energy to gripe about the hated nickname, which seems to have been the point of its use, if Jake’s frown at Tom’s silent eyeroll is anything to go by.

Casey gives Tom's shoulders a rub. "Are you hungry? You want pizza?"

Casey had introduced them all to pizza on the first night that he and Tom had become roommates. Usually it was a surefire way to cheer any of the rest of his teammates right up. Tom opens his mouth to decline gently and make his way to lick his wounds in private - or find them, at least, he’s not sure why he’s feeling so off kilter - but then he sees the slouch in Casey’s shoulders and the anxiety stiffening Jake and James’.

They do all need to eat.

“Yeah. Sure,” he says. “Owl it, or whatever it is you do. I’ll be right back.”

His bedroom is nothing like Barclay's. There are robes and dirty Quidditch socks all over the floor, for one thing, and the bedding is deep, rich green trimmed in silver and black. The photographs on his desk move, young Toms and Jakes and Jameses waving up at him and stuffing frog spawn down each other's necks. Charlotte, Tom's pedigreed cat, naps on a silk pillow in the corner, but spares him a big-eyed yawn when he enters.

Tom wants to find Barclay. He wants to ask, _what was happening?_

He wants to say, _I'm sorry_.

He sits down heavily on his pristinely made bed and lets himself fall back to stare at the ceiling. He can hear Charlotte trotting over and can’t help a brief smile. She jumps up onto the bed next to him and rubs her face against his jaw, purring away.

Tom thinks of peppering kisses along Barclay’s neck. This is getting _so_ out of control.

"Mraow." Charlotte bats at Tom's chin until he looks down and kisses her small pink nose.

"Thanks for trying to help," he murmurs to her. "But I don't think you can get me out of this one."

Charlotte blinks at him as if offended and sneezes right in his face. Lovely.

Tom wipes the tiny wet spots off his face just as Casey pokes his head in through the door.

“Pizza should be here in fifteen minutes. Want me to come get you then?”

Tom looks up at Casey and keeps tufting Charlotte's silky hair through his fingers. "Yeah, thanks. I'm just... I don't really understand how it went wrong."

"It might not be," Casey says. "Maybe it's nothing."

“Yeah,” Tom says. That’s just the thing though, isn’t it? Even if Barclay turns out to be a harmless Muggle, even if there’s nothing dark or disconcerting underfoot, then Tom will still have given Barclay one hell of a fright. That he’ll be made to forget about. Including Tom. So it’s gone wrong either way. It’s just a matter of how wrong now.

"Chin up," Casey says. "I don't like seeing you sad." He pauses. "Last time I went to my dad's, I ran into Lola at the fishmonger's."

"Oh?"

"Nice girl," Casey says quietly. He shuts the door behind him when he leaves Tom alone to his thoughts again.

Tom sighs. At least the probability he’ll ever run into Barclay again is as close to zero as it can get. And maybe this is just... a weird sort of hangover. And emotional sex hangover. It was _really good_ last night and Barclay had seemed so sweet. So of course Tom got a little attached. There’s no telling he’ll still be this attached in three days. Three weeks, three months. He’ll be alright, probably. At least he’s not losing seven years with a person he loves.

"Mraow!" Charlotte bites Tom's thumb, holding his hand just so with her tiny claws.

"Yes, I know," he sighs. "You're the real love of my life. No need to be jealous yet, love."

Honestly, cats. There’s probably a reason so many wizards and witches keep them around, other than gnome control. Tom’s not entirely convinced she doesn’t understand every word he says, even if it’s only in his mind.

She's silent as she jumps out of his lap and stalks beneath the dresser to hunt chizpurfles or murtlaps or whatever creepy-crawlies wizarding cats prefer. Tom flops backwards onto his bed and stares up at the ceiling.

Even in studying Muggles, he'd never really understood why their worlds were kept so separate. He knows his great-aunt thinks Muggles are dirty, and given how terrible their showers are, maybe that's true, but it doesn't seem like enough to warrant this much... complication.

Sure, there was that whole period of witch burning, but the only people the Muggles ever hurt with those were other Muggles. It has always struck Tom as a little unnecessarily cruel to let all these poor Muggle women die just to keep their secret. And Muggle medicine! Merlin, the way Casey’d explained it and what Tom remembers from his classes... there is a lot of room for magical improvement there. Was the threat of weaponisation of their power really worth all this .... _all this_? It’s not like wizards and witches aren’t plenty capable of that themselves.

And people like Lola -- who was Lola ever going to hurt? Not Casey. Tom never got to meet her, but from the way Casey talks about her -- when he does -- it doesn't seem like she planned to sell him out or try to harness his magic to take over Britain. She just wanted to understand what Casey did all year when he was away. It wasn’t her fault that Casey and she didn’t see a long term future together. That didn’t change who she was as a person. And anyway, even if she had told someone - who would believe her? They have been keeping magic under wraps after all, and from what Tom learned, Muggles tend to very firmly not believe in it.

But even if they did... Tom doesn't believe in a lot of the things that Muggles do, but he isn't going to hurt them over it. Hell: he doesn't believe in a lot of things other wizards do, and he isn't going to hurt them over it. There are people who hurt others and people who don't, and being a Muggle or a wizard has nothing to do with it. Grindelwald and Voldemort and that German bloke, they would all have been bad either way.

It just didn't seem like Barclay could have been _bad_.

Tom puts both his hands over his face and groans into them. All he wanted was a good night with a fit bloke. And he had that. He did. It was -- it was great, and Barclay had made him tea. He wasn't kicking him out right away. He'd made him a cup of tea.

And Tom had... Tom had seen a way out and taken it. Without even stopping to say goodbye first. Or thank you. He could’ve done that, at least. This all could have been avoided if Tom had just stopped in the damn kitchen to say _thanks for the lay, it was lovely. Cheers_. He should’ve just asked Chet to come pick him up. A little teasing would’ve been better than this.

A glassine capuchin monkey suddenly stares right into Tom's eyes and Casey's voice emanates from its unmoving mouth. "Pizza's arrived. If you aren't out here in ten seconds, we'll eat it all."

Alright then. Tom allows himself the three seconds it takes for the patronus to dissolve and then stands up with more energy than he feels he has. He bounces on his feet for good measure. Moping’s over. It’ll not get him anywhere until the Ministry let him know what they found. For now, there’s pizza to be had.

“As your captain I demand you save me some!” he yells down the hall as he closes the door to his room.

“Not our captain anymore!” James yells back.

“Never were mine!” Casey adds.

"Dammit." No respect.

Charlotte nearly trips him as she streaks out behind him and ruffles his ankles on her way towards the smells of grease and meat and people to terrorize. He snorts when he comes into the living room, where the lads are on the floor with huge white boxes open in front of them, a fourth one sitting untouched and waiting for him. Charlotte is climbing up Casey’s arm, stretching her mouth to take bites from his slice of pizza whenever he does, Casey is unsuccessfully keeping her at bay and James and Jake are both laughing with their mouths full and open. At least he’s got good distractions.

He scrubs his hands over his face. "Alright, lads?" He sits down and opens his box. Muggles may not be great with hygiene, but they are excellent with fast food. "Tell me something good. I need a laugh."

“Your face,” James says, dutifully.

“Your mum,” Jake adds. They guffaw and high-five. Tom is surrounded by idiots. This shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

They eat their Muggle food and play a few rounds of Exploding Snap and then Jake gets an owl from home that Syd's been bitten by a pixie because she tried to dress it in a baby bonnet, and he needs to get home to catch the rest. He heaves a long and heavy sigh and then grins at them all.

“Well. I’ll see you at practice. Bright and early.”

James gets up with him, stretching his limbs. They’re gone in two puffs of green smoke.

"You want another round?" Casey explodes a Knave with a tap and then coughs at the smoke.

“Sure,” Tom says. “One more and then we’re off to bed.”

Casey rolls his eyes but shuffles the cards.

“Yes, dad.”

They play a best-of-three instead, because Casey can tell that Tom needs a win tonight.

 

There’s no time for anyone to shout a warning before Tom’s world explodes into pain and he clutches his broomstick for dear life as he twirls around it. There’s a blur of green and brown and blue, around and around until Tom can’t tell up from down. A hand on each of his arms stops him so he can orient himself again.

“What in Merlin’s filthy beard was that?” Parisa says, eyes and mouth wide when Tom’s eyes more or less focus on her.

"You hit me with a Bludger," Tom grunts. "Didn't you know?"

“You’ve not let me hit you with a bludger since second year! It was coming straight for your face!”

She's hovering next to him, fussing over his face, clearly torn between worrying, feeling sorry and trying not to laugh in his face.

"Felt sorry for you," Tom mumbles. He lets her Heal his nose with a snap. "Thought you needed the practice."

“Sure thing, captain,” she says, humour dancing in her eyes. There never was any fooling her. It’s one of the things he likes best about her, her sharpness. That and that she’s terrifying on the pitch. And off.

She finishes cleaning the blood from Tom's nose, then slaps his cheek. Hard. "Get your head out your arsehole, Mann. You've been behind on your times all day, too. Did you get a lurgy from that Muggle you fucked? James told me about that."

It’s true. Tom’s been slower today. His laps aren’t nearly as fast as they could be and out of seven throws he’s only caught the snitch twice. _Twice_. He’d done better at his tryouts at Hogwarts in his second year. (Granted, the Hogwarts snitch is slower than the League ones, but that’s what the decade of practice in between is meant to compensate for.)

“Muggles aren’t actually walking bags of disease, _Tarjomani_ , and you know that,” he says.

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Then get the lead out! You're better than this."

Once Parisa goes to pep talks, you know you seem pathetic.

“You’re right! You’re right,” he says. “Let’s run it again. You’ll never get me a second time.”

She does, though, a second time and then a third before practice is over. The last time Tom's hit, he flails right off his broom and tumbles all the way to the ground.

He opens his eyes to Casey looming over him.

"Alright?" Casey asks. "I know what it's like to get the Tarjomani Special."

“Bet you’re glad you’re on my side now,” Parisa says, appearing over his shoulder and slinging an arm around his.

“I thank heaven for it daily,” he says, solemnly.

“I think my legs are broken,” Tom chimes in.

"Oh, look at that," Parisa says. "They are. Hang on; let me get the Mediwitch."

She trots off, and Casey sits down in the grass beside Tom. He pats his hair back from his face.

"Still feelin' bad?"

"Well," Tom says. "The legs don't help."

“The legs shouldn’t have happened,” Casey reminds him. “This isn’t why Gryffindor had such a hard time winning the Quidditch Cup. If you’d fallen off your broom this easily every match, we’d’ve had it in the bag.”

Tom sticks out his tongue. Even that hurts.

But it's true. He's never been so off-form before, and it's stupid. The owl from the Ministry this morning said that the "situation had been apprised and appropriately handled." And that's good.

It is.

It's good.

It means Barclay’s most likely not a dark wizard and Tom has been edited out of his mind. Or if he is indeed a dark wizard, he’s been apprehended. Either way, it’s no concern of Tom’s. So why are his legs not the only thing hurting right now?

Tom has never been good at letting things go until he understands every detail. It's why he's a Slytherin, and why he made a good Head Boy. He's a good Seeker because he has focus and tracks every movement of the pitch with ease. He does the same with everything else. If he can't control all the bits of his life, then what business does he have trying to manage anything?

He isn't managing very well not knowing what's happened with Barclay.

“If it’s the Muggle thing,” Casey says, carefully, “we can always ask the Ministry what happened. Weasley seemed to like you well enough. Provided it’s not a government secret he’ll probably tell you.”

Tom purses his lips. He doesn’t like being so transparent either.

“But can you _please_ pull yourself together? We’ve got another game coming up and this one’s not against the Cannons. We need you focussed, not mooning over some lad.”

He's right. Tom hates when other people are right, but Casey's right. Parisa returns with the Mediwitch, and as soon as Tom's legs are healed, she and Casey haul him to his feet.

“Now. Does your head need fixing too? Or can we go and play some actual Quidditch?” Parisa asks, hands on her hips as soon as Tom can stand on his own two feet.

Tom hefts his broom in his hand. "Yeah, I'm good. Just a pick-up back home? Maybe some toasties first?"

“Yeah, alright. Meet you in an hour? Do we need to bring anything?” she asks. Tom looks at Casey and shakes his head.

“Nah. Just your brooms. We’ve got balls.”

She gives him a very considering look.

“After today I’m not so sure, Mann...”

Tom would protest, but he doesn't blame her. He's never gone this goofy over anyone before, not even that time he saw Harry Potter in the crowd at the Quidditch World Cup. Then again, he didn't fuck Harry Potter, so that could be part of it.

“I keep ‘em in a box under my bed,” he quips and watches her laugh.

“See you in an hour then, boys,” she says, slaps them both upside the head and hops onto her broom to zoom over to Betsy and Lauren.

“I am _so_ glad we’re on the same team,” Casey says.

"I'm still sorry that I'm not sorry about the House cup in my sixth year," Tom says, giving Casey a grin. He'd been laid up in the Hospital Wing for a week after Parisa nearly took his face off with a particularly vicious swing. That was part of the reason Casey quit being a Chaser and became a Keeper instead -- less likely to be on the wrong side of Parisa Tarjomani.

“In the grand scheme of things, I’ve decided to be glad for it. I’m so much better at Keeping,” Casey says. “And once you had graduated, your team couldn’t really hold up against ours anyway. I’ve got my share of trophies, don’t worry.”

Tom jumps on Casey's back, and lets him deal with the Apparition home. Serves him right for being a smart-arse.

 

Six or seven cheese toasties each later, they're out in the rippling golden thistlegrass field that separates their village from the Muggle town of Lyndhurst. It's not the best place in the world to practice Quidditch, since every so often someone disturbs a dwelling of gnomes and the whole afternoon goes awry, but the village's Muggle-Repelling Enchantments extend only as far as the boundaries of the thistlegrass.

“So how are we doing this? Just drills? Or three a side?” Betsy asks. Even knowing there is magic involved, Tom is astounded again and again by how Parisa and she manage to look impeccable, despite their very rigorous Quidditch playing.

"Three a side," Tom says. He Captained more people than Lauren did back for Ravenclaw, so he's claiming rank. Plus, he's cranky, and Lauren knows not to fuck with a cranky Slytherin by now. "Me, Jake, and James against you girls. Casey's Keeper and referee by default."

“Boys against girls?” Parisa asks, smirk firm on her lips. “D’you really want to just hand us the win?”

Casey rolls his eyes at their antics. Teammates though they might always have been, they are both paragons of Slytherin ambition.

“Just try to refrain from injuring each other,” he says. “We don’t have a mediwitch with us.”

Lauren and Tom shake hands and Casey leans down to open their box of balls.

“One quaffle, one snitch, one bludger only. One player on each position. You both play on me. First to catch the snitch or reach two-fifty wins. Agreed?”

Tom nods. Lauren gives Casey a little salute, a habit she picked up from her idol, Cheryl F-V of the Holyhead Harpies.

“Alright then,” Casey says and straightens back up. “I’ll raise the goals, we’ll go up and I’ll release the balls on a count of three.”

“I’ll help with the goals,” Betsy says and follows Casey down the patch of open land to the far side, where they usually raise their three hoops from the trees there.

They Wingardium Leviosa the practice hoops up and tie them to overhanging, well-battered branches while the others stretch their muscles and warm up their brooms.

Playing like this always reminds Tom why he wanted to be a professional. He just loves the game. He remembers playing only five inches off the ground when he couldn’t even swim yet and it still gives him the same sense of freedom and joy.

Betsy comes shooting over to Lauren and Parisa then, Casey hovering in front of the goals.

“Alright!” he calls at the, voice loud with Sonorus. The three balls are hovering before him, wand pointed at them. “On your marks. Get. Set. Go!”

Tom shoots into the air and keeps his eyes out for the golden flash of the Snitch in blue autumn sunlight. High above the field, he can see the whole village: little toddlers playing with enchanted dolls having tea, housewives listening to the WWN as they hang their washing out on lines. He pulls his focus in closer, scans the sky above the field. Their practice snitch never goes further than two hundred feet from where it’s been released but that’s still far enough for Tom to lose sight of it.

Lauren swoops around beside him, looking over her girls and the treetops. "See it yet?"

"Like I'd tell you," Tom snorts.

“You never know,” she grins and loops around him, dropping down. His eyes track her movement automatically, scan the perimeter of their playing field and catch on a figure stumbling through the grass, their head tilted up.

"Holy shit," Tom whispers, and his broom starts to descend before he can really think about it. He knows that face, those broad shoulders clad in a black jacket. Muggle jeans.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Casey calls, voice still loud. Tom doesn’t pay attention, fixated on his way down and their - his - visitor.

Their eyes lock even before Tom hops off his broom, stumbles the last few steps up to him. They must both look as bewildered as each other.

“Barclay?”


	3. Tom Mann and the Intricacies of Muggle Relations

** Tom Mann and the Intricacies of Muggle Relations **

"Barclay?"

Tom holds tight to his wand in his pocket. If Barclay were a Muggle, the wards would have kept him out of the village and away from the thistlegrass field. So he isn’t a Muggle -- he’s something else. 

"You're really riding on flying broomsticks," Barclay whispers. He isn't even looking at Tom, still staring up into the sky to where Parisa's bat has just connected to the Bludger with a familiar _crack!_. "You're flying. On broomsticks."

Tom follows his line of sight automatically, a little bit insulted that his friends haven’t noticed his descent or if they have, decided to ignore it and play on without him. Lauren’s soaring up into the sky like she’s spotted the Snitch. Aw, damn.

“Well, yes,” he says to Barclay. “It’s my job. Quidditch.”

Barclay looks down at Tom like it's a struggle to lower his eyes. "It's a job? Flying on brooms?"

Tom balks a bit.

“You pay people to kick around a ball.”

"I didn't mean... is that what they're doing up there? Playing ball?" Barclay blinks and it's like his vision clears when he looks at Tom. "That's what you do. You said, you said that's what _you_ do. So you _are_ a footie player. Air-footie."

Tom can’t help the laugh startled out of him at the reference to their brief conversation about football. He scratches at the back of his neck sheepishly before he can think not to.

“I suppose?” he says and then looks over at Barclay. “What do you do?”

Barclay opens his mouth. Closes it again. He looks back to the sky as he shakes his head. "I don't even know anymore."

Tom narrows his eyes. What is that supposed to mean? Has he had a recent change of heart?

He clenches his wand a little tighter,

“Why are you here? _How_ are you here, for that matter?” he asks then, perhaps a bit more brusquely than he needs to.

There's a swishing noise and then Casey walks up through the tall thistlegrass to stand beside Tom. His wand is right out, pointed at Barclay.

"How'd you get through the wards?"

“The what?” Barclay asks, taking a step back at the wand pointed squarely at him, Casey’s shoulders just as square. “What wards? There weren’t any...? I don’t understand.”

There are five more soft thuds behind Tom and Lauren saying, “Hey, what’s going on? I caught the Snitch!”

"Damn," Tom mutters to his own chest. He takes a deep breath and looks back to the rest of his squad. "Erm, this is..."

"I know who it is," Jake says loudly. "He's that Muggle. What're you doing bringing him here, Tom? We just spent all fuckin' day yesterday keeping you out of prison for shagging him!"

Barclay’s eyes go round as cauldrons and snap back to Tom at that.

“I didn’t bring him here! He just showed up!” Tom says.

“Which is why I’m not going to ask again after this,” Casey says, calm and focussed on Barclay still. “ _How_ did you get through the wards? No Muggle should be able to cross them. _Definitely_ not without help and I’ve been with Tom all day, so he didn’t help you through.”

"I'm not," Barclay croaks. He coughs. "That word. My parents said I'm not one."

“Poppycock,” Casey says.

“So why were you so surprised to see me with your Floo?” Tom asks. It would at least explain why Barclay had a Floo, if he weren’t a Muggle. And why he can remember everything even though the Ministry said it’d been taken care of.

Barclay just shakes his head, licks his lip. "I hadn't... I've never... weren't any of you surprised? To find this out? There are people just..." He flails his arms, laughing with a yellow hysteria that bubbles out of him like he can't help it. "Flying on broomsticks and walking into fireplaces and it's like you think it's normal! I can't... and my _parents_!"

Casey and Tom exchange a look. Barclay seems distressed more than anything, but other than Casey they'd all grown up with magic. Of course this was _normal_ to them. It was to Casey now as well. His days of huddling in groups of Muggle-borns and Halfbloods around the Hogwarts corridors were long over.

"I'm confused," says Betsy from behind Tom. "Who is this? Did he go to Durmstrang?"

"Yeah, mate," says James, pulling his wand out to stand beside Casey in defense. "I think we need the whole story here."

Barclay takes another step back and Tom almost takes the few steps necessary to stand by his side, but doesn't. Nothing about Barclay showing up so suddenly makes sense. How did he know where to find Tom? Why does he still remember Tom? How did he get past the anti Muggle wards? And what did he mean by “ _my parents_ ”?

"I believe you," Tom says, holding his own empty hands up. The way Barclay's eyes take in Casey and James with their wands at the ready -- he looks about ready to keel over in fear. "But how did you know where to find me?"

Barclay’s eyes flit between Casey and James and their wands Tom’s empty hands a few times.

“Mr. Weasley told me you lived around here. I just... I just wanted to talk to you.”

Tom steps forward, looks back over his shoulder at his boys. "You can put your wands down. Don't... lose them. But you can, you know. I don't think he's dangerous."

"You never know," Jake mumbles. "You sure?"

"Well, Mr. Weasley must think he's safe," Tom reasons. "And he's, you know. A Weasley."

Barclay is still wide-eyed like he has no clue why that would be significant, but Casey lowers his wand slowly, and Jake follows after a moment’s hesitation. 

Barclay whispers something so soft that Tom would be surprised if even he'd heard it, then clears his throat and tries again. "Apparently I'm a wizard."

Tom’s eyebrows shoot up. So do Casey’s and Jake’s. Probably James’s too.

“What do you mean, ‘apparently’?” Parisa asks, tone confused. “Even if you’re Muggle born, you can’t have just found out. You’re our age.”

Barclay's already shaking his head. "I didn't, I swear I didn't... this is all pretend, isn't it? Flying on broomsticks and, and walking through fire. A man showed up in my house just... like that." He claps. "There was nothing, and then there was an old man with reddish hair. And a pointy hat, like on Halloween."

"Oh, you mean like that?" Jake asks with a sharp grin and Apparates to just behind Barclay, tapping him on the shoulder.

Barclay whirls around and staggers a step back, towards Tom and the rest, hand clutching his jacket.

Jake laughs.

Tom steps forward to put a comforting hand on Barclay's arm, but Barclay jerks at the contact before looking up to see Tom and settling a bit.

"Don't be a jackass, Jake; Merlin's pants," Casey mutters. "It's scary, the first time. I get it."

He slips his wand back inside his robe then and gives Barclay a smile and offers his hand.

“Hi, I’m Casey. My parents are Muggles so I grew up just like you. Well, until I was eleven, at least.”

Barclay hesitates before he takes Casey's hand, but he does. "I saw you the other night," he offers. "At the pub."

"Yeah, yeah, my brother's a Muggle, too," Casey says. "That's him we were with."

“That means he... doesn’t have... magic. Right?” Barclay asks. “Only I thought all my life I didn’t and then Tom steps into fire and suddenly everything’s. Changed.”

"Well, I can tell you that it's nothing to do with Tom." Casey winks and sticks out his tongue. "He ain't that special."

Barclay flushes visibly and Tom feels heat on his own cheeks. He just hopes it doesn’t show up quite as obviously. It was bad enough talking about his sex life before it had shown up before his friends in the flesh.

“Wait, I still don’t get it,” Betsy says. “So is he a wizard or not? And how do you know Tom?”

"We hooked up the other night," Tom says shortly. "I thought he was a Muggle. But he had a Floo, so I used it, and... I don't know what's going on now."

“Also we spent all day the next day at the Ministry trying to make sure Tom wouldn’t get put in prison for revealing magic to a Muggle. Who’s not a Muggle apparently,” James adds, looking to Tom. He seems confused as well.

“Pretty much,” Tom says.

“Why would you just use a random Floo, Tom? That’s so irresponsible!” Parisa says.

"It was on the Network," Tom says, and winces away when she shoves his shoulder. Hard. "It's not like I got in and coughed something random and got spit out somewhere lost. I got home, didn't I?"

“Just because you got lucky doesn’t mean it’s not stupid,” Parisa insists. “And you gave this lad here a fright, apparently.”

"He did," Barclay agrees. "Thanks. Are you... what were you doing with that bat?"

"Hitting people," Parisa says cheerfully. "Or I use it to hit a ball that hits people."

Barclay blanches and makes an abortive move away from her.

“She’s quite good at it,” Casey says cheerfully. “Broke a few of my bones in the day.”

"It's barely more dangerous than rugby," Casey says. What in the hell is 'rugby'?

"But can't you... fall?" Barclay asks.

“Well, yes,” Casey says. “But it doesn’t happen often.”

“But don’t you... break bones? Die?” Barclay says, shock written all over his face plain as day.

“Die?” James laugh. “Nah. And we just grow the bones back, it’s not a problem.”

Barclay's brow furrows and he looks quiet, like all of him is reeling and testing, feeling out the questions with tiny fingers. "Would it be a problem if you did die? Couldn't you, like... you couldn't fix that, too?"

"No," Tom says. "It's not something to fix, is it? Erm... do you want to come back to ours? Instead of standing in a field, I mean?"

Barclay looks at their little group and then back to Tom, like he’s not sure he wants to go anywhere with them. But it isn’t exactly hospitable out here either.

“Don’t worry, they’re mostly hot air,” Casey says. They’re not really, but Tom doesn’t think any of them intend to hurt Barclay, so he smiles encouragingly.

"If it helps, I think we need to leave," Betsy says, touching her hands to Parisa and Lauren. "We're off to Madame Puddifoot's tonight."

“Oh, alright,” Tom says. Casey looks like he wants to say something else entirely, but doesn’t, since Parisa is still clutching her bat. “Have fun.”

The Apparate away with a soft trio of pops and the scent of lavender and hazel on the air all that remains. Barclay looks, if anything, paler.

"Do you need to put your head between your knees?" Casey asks him. "It's okay if you do."

"Do you need to put your head between Tom's knees?" James asks. "'Cause I can look the other way."

Jake roars with laughter, even as Tom reaches out to swat them both on the head. The only reason he doesn't send a little hex their way is that he figures it'd only stress Barclay out more.

"We can send these two idiots on their way as well," he says.

"I'm not leaving," Jake says. "No disrespect, Captain, but I think I better than you do how well some Dark wizards can fake being... not."

It’s a difficult point to contest and one Jake rarely brings up himself. Tom’s not sure exactly how he feels about his father’s... about his father. Jake hardly ever speaks of it and he and Tom don’t exactly have regular heart-to-hearts.

"I'm not dangerous," Barclay whispers. He looks at Tom. "Am I?"

“Probably not, if you have to ask,” Tom says. “But you wouldn’t tell us if you were, would you?”

He wipes a hand over his face, noting only now that he’s covered in rapidly cooling sweat. He shivers a bit as if his body’s catching up with the sensation.

“This is all a bit complicated to explain.”

"We can go to a pub or something, if you don't want to come home with us," Casey says.

"I don't think I should drink right now," Barclay says. "I feel like I'm drunk anyway. Nothing makes sense."

“They do serve things other than alcohol at pubs,” Tom says with a grin. “And if you’ve not had any, you’re probably not drunk. All of this is very real, if that helps.”

"That's what doesn't make sense. How can any of this be real? What about... physics? What about... I don't know. Reality?"

“Physics?” Tom asks, puzzled. It is all rather physical. He thought that’d be obvious.

Casey’s wrinkling his face like what Barclay said makes sense to him.

“Just think of it as... energy. Energy converting to mass.”

"I'm rubbish at physics," Barclay says, but when he looks at Casey, he smiles for the first time since he arrived.

Tom does not. Tom frowns. This all stings a bit.

Casey laughs.

"Mate, I don't even have my GCSEs. If this magic thing turns sour, I'm fucked. I only picked up a bit from my brother and summer reading my parents insisted on,” he says.

"Do wizards not go to school?"

"We go to school," Tom says. "I was Head Boy. And the captain of Quidditch. Beat Casey's team nearly every match."

He's bragging, but he doesn't like sounding second-class. He isn't, and he couldn't brag about it when he first met Barclay. And maybe Casey can use phrases like 'rugby' and 'GCSE,' but Tom can do things.

“And he never lets me forget it,” Casey says, rolling his eyes. But Barclay is looking at Tom now and smiling at him, so Tom doesn’t care much.

“So you are a bit like Beckham,” Barclay says.

He still doesn't know what a Beckham is, but if it will make Barclay smile at him again, then he decides he likes it. Tom lifts his chin with a little victory.

"Do you want to come back with us and explain... all this? Have a cup of tea?" Tom looks down at his hands. "Sorry you smashed your mugs. I can fix them."

"How can you... oh. Right. I guess you can," Barclay says, and it's uncomfortable again just like that. "Sure, I'll have a cup of tea. Fixes everything, doesn't it."

There are some things, apparently, that Muggles and wizards agree on.

“It does,” Tom says, with a smile.

“Wait, does that mean we’re _walking_?” Jake asks.

"Yes, Jake, with our legs even." Casey pushes Jake's shoulder and Jake topples. "It won't kill you."

“But it takes so long,” Jake whines. Casey just laughs at him.

“You literally play sport for a living,” Tom says with a roll of his eyes. “I think you can handle a little walk.”

"We don't use our legs in Quidditch!" Jake keeps protesting all the way back to Casey- and Tom's flat. They even make him climb the stairs. Honestly though, “don’t use our legs”. What does Jake think keeps him from falling off the broom when both his hands are otherwise occupied?

Barclay steps into their flat cautiously, like he expects something to jump out at him and scare him any moment. The only thing they are met with is the stillness of the empty flat and Charlotte trotting up to meet them by the door. She goes to Casey first, as she always does. Little traitor.

"Is that your... familiar?" Barclay asks Casey as Charlotte uses her little claws to climb halfway up his leg, purring like a dragon.

"Familiar?" Casey laughs. "No, she's just Tom's prissy cat. Has to be the center of attention all the time, just like her owner." He lifts Charlotte off his thigh with a slight wince, then cradles her like a baby. "She's just a normal cat, though. You wouldn't know it to hear Tom talk about her, though. She is a good mouser."

Casey toes out of his boots and turns to Tom.

“I’m gonna go wash. You take care of your guest and your cat,” he says and then dumps Charlotte on the floor.

“She’s not my... familiar,” Tom explains. “That’s not how it works. She and I aren’t connected in any way.”

"Mraow!" Charlotte protests this very stridently, turning her back on Tom and giving them both a defiant view of cat-bum. She stalks over to the sofa and climbs up to claim an entire cushion, her big blue eyes very smug.

Tom rolls his eyes at her.

“Yes, yes, you’re very clever and lovely,” he says, going over to scritch her behind the ears for a bit.

She purrs, although her eyes follow Barclay like she's unsure about this new person and his new-person smell in her domain. He sits on an armchair across from Tom instead of on the sofa beside him, and Tom's stomach twists.

“She won’t bite,” he says, trying to lighten the mood with a smile. “She’s not a dog. Worst she does is leave to sulk.”

Barclay smiles back but stays where he is.

“It’s alright. I’m allergic.”

"What does that mean?"

"Allergic? Do you not have allergies in your -- in this world?" Barclay frowns. "Something in cats makes something in me think I'm ill, I guess. Makes my eyes swell up."

“Hm,” Tom says. He can’t say he’s ever heard about anything like it. “I suppose we don’t.”

“No? Not even, like, peanuts? People can die from eating them if they’re allergic.”

Tom gives Charlotte's soft belly a good scritching as he ponders. People can die from bloodroot or aconite or Angel's Trumpet. But that isn't just a sickness in some people, and obviously that's what Barclay means about allergies. After all, Tom has never had a problem with his eyes swelling from being near Charlotte. And he doesn't think Muggles _eat_ cats.

“I’ve never heard of it, at least,” he says then. Barclay hums and they fall silent. James and Jake hover awkwardly before they move down the hallway into the direction of the kitchen and come back with a pitcher of pumpkin juice and five glasses hovering in front of them.

"Are... I know it's interesting, but if I weren't here, would you just carry them?" Barclay asks Jake. "Or are you freaking out the Mug-- me?"

It’s a question that Tom would never dare to ask Jake, not knowing how it felt when people assumed the worst because of his surname or the House he slept in for seven years. All the same, he can’t pretend that he wasn’t wondering just the same thing. 

But Jake grins at Barclay. “A bit of both. Can’t carry five glasses and a pitcher by myself can I?”

"What about him?"

James, as if on cue, trips over absolutely nothing and careens into the wall. Ahead of him, the pitcher of pumpkin juice remains level and placid.

Barclay chuckles. "Never mind."

Tom feels a smile pulling at this lips at the exchange. James and his inability to be graceful on solid ground is always pretty funny, but he knows that’s not what’s provoking the reaction this time. Before he can berate himself for it, or worse, before Jake can notice, Casey comes back, falling down on the sofa next to Tom and Charlotte, who gets up from her pillow and makes her way into Casey’s lap.

“Alright. What did I miss? Have we solved the mystery of your paramour’s wizarding ancestry yet?”

"No," Tom says. "But James fell over."

"That's nothing new." Casey waves a dismissive hand. He lazily points his wand at the pitcher on the table, and then all five glasses are filled. He hands one to Barclay the Muggle way, hand-to-hand, and Barclay thanks him.

He drinks, then makes a terrible face. "What is this? I thought it was orange juice but this is not orange juice."

“Pumpkin juice,” James says, the ‘duh’ heavy in his tone. Barclay’s face, if possible, becomes more disbelieving.

“Why would you juice a _pumpkin _?”__

__James and Jake look at each other, and then look at Tom. It's a look that says, _see what you get us into? See what you bring into our lives?__ _

__Tom’s honestly at a bit of a loss how to explain it._ _

__“Um, we just... do? It’s normal for us,” he says and then tacks on, “would you like something else?”_ _

__Barclay sniffs the glass, then takes another sip._ _

__"No... it's nice, actually, I was just expecting orange. You know when you think you're going to get water and instead it's milk? It was like that." He pauses. "D'you lot drink milk?"_ _

__“Er, sometimes?” Tom says and then sighs. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you... explain how you got from dropping mugs in shock to here?”_ _

__Barclay nods and turns the glass around in his hands. "Well... I saw you... and then I didn't. I thought I was going mad. I actually rang my parents -- er, used the telephone -- and told them, 'I think I'm going mad. I think I've hallucinated a whole man.'"_ _

__Jake snorts into his glass and Tom sends him a glare. He rolls his eyes in response but doesn’t say anything at least so Tom will count it as a win._ _

__“They made me tell them the, er, whole story,” Barclay says, flushing. “Well, at least, you know, about the morning and the fireplace.”_ _

__Tom nods. Jake stays silent._ _

__“And then mum just goes ‘oh, dear, I think we need to have a talk’ and they drove up to come see me.”_ _

__"So they just told you?" Casey asks. "We were at the Ministry, that's like our Parliament, right, and they said they'd sort it out."_ _

__"Yeah, well, you lot can travel faster than my Dad's old Ford Anglia. Before they even arrived, that man Mr. Weasley showed up in my kitchen and about scared me to death."_ _

__“So are your parents Muggles? Or why didn’t they just Apparate?” James asks._ _

__“They had my brother and sister with them. And I think they just didn’t want to frighten us,” Barclay says._ _

__"So... what happened there, mate? I've a Muggle brother, but my parents are both Muggles, too. I'm the only wizard in the family." Casey moves Charlotte off his lap so he can lean forward and address Barclay directly. "It's like... a genetic mutation. But's usually inherited. That's like this lot; they all come from wizarding families."_ _

__"I guess so do I," Barclay murmurs. "My parents... and Mr. Weasley was there, so I guess he helped... my parents said there was a war on? When we were babies?"_ _

__The shift in the atmosphere of the room is remarkable. Tom can see Jake’s hand twitch to where he keeps his wand in his robes and gives him a tiny shake of the head. It’s still four to one. They’re still good. They don’t need to scare Barclay all over again._ _

__“Yeah, there was,” Tom only says and waits for the rest of Barclay’s information._ _

__“Right,” Barclay says, shoulders slumping like part of him had hoped there hadn’t been a war. “My parents said it was... pretty heavy stuff. Double agents and civilians dying and no one really knowing what went on? And everything sort of centred around this one kid? Basically, when they had me they went into hiding.”_ _

__"What, did his parents think _he_ was Harry fucking Potter?" James mumbles. "Whole point was there's only one Chosen One."_ _

__"Shut up, James." Tom doesn't even look at him. Everyone reacted differently to the War. The purebloods especially had a hard time of it, in a way. If you were with Voldemort it looked like you were winning for a while there but if you weren’t you suddenly didn’t know which ones of your friends you could trust anymore. Tom doesn’t blame someone for putting their family first._ _

__“I don’t...” Barclay starts out, gaze darting between James and Tom, but when Tom gives him a small smile he sighs and starts over._ _

__“We lived in that house I’m in now for a few years, and my parents still used magic at first, I guess? Which must be why I can remember my dad making dragons out of sparks in the garden for me,” Barclay goes on. “But at some point they decided to give magic up. I think around the time my brother was born? They moved us to Devon and raised us normal.”_ _

__“As Muggles, you mean,” Jake says, pointedly._ _

__"Right," Barclay says by way of apology. "They raised us as Muggles."_ _

__"But the War ended," Tom points out. "It's been ended... I think almost James' whole life. They never came back? What about Hogwarts?"_ _

__“What’s a Hogwarts?” Barclay asks. “They said, um -- my parents, that they didn’t trust the peace at first. That people thought it had been over before but it wasn’t?”_ _

__Tom looks at Jake again, but Jake is staring resolutely into the fireplace, his jaw set. He told Tom and James once, very drunk up in Tom's Head Boy suite at the castle, that his father told him about the night Harry Potter duelled the Dark Lord in a cemetery. The night the Dark Lord rose again. He was there, while Jake's mum was pregnant with Jake back in Bristol. Jake still has his mask hidden somewhere down in their cellar._ _

___I hate him_ , Jake had slurred. _But we can't just turn it in.__ _

__Tom’s own parents were never involved with Voldemort. He just had to know, after that article about Lord Voldemort’s beginnings had been published, stirred by all of that talk about war orphans and why there weren’t proper institutions to deal with them. His birth name had been in it, _Tom_ Riddle. And Tom, pureblood, Slytherin, just _had_ to know it was a coincidence. That his parents didn’t know._ _

__James never asked and his parents never volunteered any information._ _

__There are uncles and aunts to whom the Grahams never speak. But James doesn't know, and Tom doesn't care to guess, which side that means they chose. What matters is that _they_ , that almost all Slytherins in their time at Hogwarts, had never uttered the word ‘mudblood’ or talked about wizard superiority. Had never thought it either. What mattered was that Casey and Jake had been silly about their Houses at school, not the status of Casey’s blood._ _

__Barclay looks between all of them and Tom realises they’ve been quiet for a bit too long._ _

__“Um, yes. That... that happened. There was this... really bad wizard and back in the eighties people thought he was dead, but he wasn’t. Came back. He caused that last war too.”_ _

__"Right," Barclay says. "Well, my parents... I guess they were worried about it. I had an aunt I'd never heard of; she died, I guess. Because of the war. So my parents took me and Con and Tay and just... gave up magic. They had no idea when I moved back to our old house that they'd left anything."_ _

__Jake snorts a bit derisively._ _

__“Means no one came looking for them, if it was still there,” he says._ _

__Barclay can obviously tell the topic’s a sensitive one for Jake, but he doesn’t know why or what he can do to make it better, so he just winces a bit._ _

__“Anyway, that’s why... you found that powder that I think you needed? And why my fireplace did that green fire thing.”_ _

__"That's a Floo," Casey explains. "It's one of the less difficult ways we travel. The other one's a big mess; you can leave body parts behind and it hurts like a motherfucker. Floo's less messy."_ _

__“If you don’t count the soot and people getting lost ‘cause they can’t bleeding enunciate,” Tom says, but it’s with a grin._ _

__Barclay seems fascinated, looking between the two of them._ _

__“Can you go anywhere? Or just to other fireplaces?” he asks._ _

__“Only other fireplaces that are connected to the Floo Network,” Casey says before Tom can. Tom is decidedly not glaring at his friend. “Sort of like you can’t call a landline that’s not connected.”_ _

__"That makes sense," Barclay says. "I did wonder why you had a fireplace in a third-floor flat. It seems like a fire hazard."_ _

__"This is a wizarding building," Tom cuts in before Casey can open his traitor mouth. "Everyone who lives here is magic. The whole village is wizarding, actually, which... when you showed up, I was surprised. Muggles can't see it, you know."_ _

__"What?" Barclay asks. He takes another sip of pumpkin juice. "The whole town? How'd you do that?"_ _

__“Magic,” Tom says with a grin and a shrug. “There are wards around the outside of the village. I think it just makes Muggles not want to walk in, somehow. I don’t know if they’d actually walk into a wall if they did try to.”_ _

__"My brother says it's like, if I'm not with him but he shows up, he remembers that he left the gas on back home," Casey says, his eyes sparkling. He and Barclay share a laugh._ _

__Charlotte bristles. Maybe she and Tom share a bit more of their souls than he thought._ _

__“So, anyway, that tells us how you found out you’re a wizard - which, by the way, is weird, ‘cause usually kids show involuntary signs of magic. Like I just wouldn’t stop hovering for a few days and Casey turned all of his crayons red - did you never do that? And also, how did you know where to find me? I never told you my last name, or where I lived.” Tom says._ _

__"I've been wracking my brain," Barclay admits. His cheeks flush a little, and he catches and then carefully avoids Tom's eye. _Interesting_. "I know a few times my brother and I cut my sister's hair and it grew back overnight. But I can't remember... any specific things about myself._ _

__"But that's what Mr. Weasley did, right, is he confirmed it all for my parents and then he brought along -- it was so weird -- he had this owl, and he wrote a letter and stuck it on his owl and said it was going to the headmistress of some wizard school to ask about my sister. My brother and I are too old. So he was going to leave and I said, well, I just came out and asked if he knew where I could... find you."_ _

__“And he just told you?” Tom asks, perplexed._ _

__“Well, no,” Barclay says. “Made me swear up and down I wasn’t trying to hurt you, but something I said must’ve convinced him. He did eventually tell me.”_ _

__Tom swallows and catches Casey’s eye. Maybe he’d unknowingly made Barclay _magically_ swear. Not an Unbreakable Vow, but something that’d be hard to break at least._ _

__“My parents weren’t too fond of the idea of me coming to find you, but, well. I guess I just wanted to see you with my own eyes? Make sure it wasn’t all some huge... I don’t know. That it’s really magic that’s in my family and not crazy, I guess.”_ _

__Tom smiles and ducks his head. "It could be both. It's not like magic and crazy are mutually exclusive. We saw a little old woman at the Ministry who was wearing a live swan as a hat."_ _

__“And an old man being swallowed by a bicycle,” Casey adds. “Actually, sometimes I wonder if magic and crazy go together. Most of your old people seem downright... kooky.”_ _

__" _Our_ old people," Tom reminds Casey, coupled with a loving kick to the kidney. "But yeah... so you've found me. What, er, do you want to do with me?"_ _

__James hoots. Out in the kitchen, Tom- and Casey's barn owl, Lux, hoots back._ _

__Barclay flushes and Tom tries very hard not to do that too. He may or may not have worded it like that on purpose. He’s just curious. If Barclay’s interest in coming back is purely... academical. Existential. Whatever it is._ _

__"I just... you're the first wizard that I know I've met," Barclay says. "And it kinda changed my life, I guess. Sorry if that's creepy."_ _

__“Nah, it’s alright,” Tom says. “It’s sort of true.”_ _

__“Don’t let him fool you,” Casey says. “Inside he’s preening.”_ _

__Tom gives him another well-placed shove with his foot._ _

__“Did you have any... questions?” Tom asks. “Or did your parents explain everything?”_ _

__"I don't think they were too keen," Barclay admits. "They didn't explain much. I think I have so many questions that I don't even know what to ask yet."_ _

__“That’s alright,” Tom says. “Just ask them whenever you think of them.”_ _

__Jake is still considering Barclay with his brow lowered. He taps his glass with the tip of his wand, and Tom knows he's added a dram of Firewhisky. He doesn't deal well with being reminded of his father in Azkaban._ _

__"Hey," Jake says, though, surprising him. "You have any tattoos?"_ _

__Barclay seems just as surprised. To be addressed by Jake at all, probably, but also to be addressed somewhat not entirely hostile._ _

__“Oh, erm, yeah? Is that... not a thing wizards to?” he says, careful in case he offends again._ _

__"Nah, mate, check it out." Jake stands and strips off his robes while the other three groan. "Ours move."_ _

__Barclay is suitably impressed and perhaps a little more transfixed than Tom deems entirely necessary. Suddenly he wishes he had tattoos himself._ _

__"Jake." Tom nudges him with his feet, too. "Stop being naked in my living room."_ _

__“You’ve never complained before,” Jake says with a grin so lascivious he must be doing it for Barclay’s sake. This time, the nudge of Tom’s feet isn’t quite as gentle._ _

__“I complain literally every single time. Put it away. No one wants to see that. Go home and wank in front of your mirror or something.”_ _

__"It's not your Mirror of Erised, mate." Jake sticks out his tongue, but then in a _pop!_ , he's gone._ _

__There's a clatter as Barclay reseats himself on the chair. He blushes dark when Tom looks over. Tom only smiles at him. It does take some getting used to, he supposes, people just popping in and out of the place. It’s not like it never startles Tom, but at least he has the advantage of knowing what’s happening._ _

__“Well, alright,” James says. “I think that’s my cue as well. It’s been fun, but I’m knackered.”_ _

__"Don't forget your broom," Casey reminds him. "Or I will steal it. You rich bastard."_ _

__“You make just as much as I do,” James says, even if that’s not at all what Casey meant. But he grabs his broom, and Jake’s too, and with a little salute at three of them, he’s off as well. This time Barclay doesn’t startle quite so badly._ _

__"So, er," Barclay looks from Tom to Casey and back. "Is that what you all do for a job? Play that... air-footie sport?"_ _

__“Quidditch,” Tom supplies. “Yeah, we do.”_ _

__“How did you learn?” Barclay turns to Casey to ask. Tom bites his lip._ _

__“At Hogwarts,” Casey says. “That’s the wizarding school in the UK. And Ireland. I think. There’s not that many of them._ _

__"I've been playing since I was a kid," Tom says. "But not as high as you saw today. Before I got on the League team, I coached littles for a bit. At Hogwarts, Casey was my rival."_ _

__“There’s a Little League for it?” Barclay says, with a smile on his face like he’s imagining it. Tom does admit it’s quite adorable to watch, as children tend to be. When they’re not horrible._ _

__“Did you do that as well?” Barclay asks Casey._ _

__"Nah, mate, I was Junior Reds Under-10s." Casey grins like these words mean something. "I told you, I'd no idea about magic until I was eleven. That's when my Hogwarts letter came and the headmistress turned up to explain it all to my family. My brother was dead angry that it wasn't him."_ _

__"Do you play offense or defense?"_ _

__Casey tilts his head and considers. "Well, I'm defense for sure. It's not as straightforward as football in that way. I'm Keeper; that's like the goalkeeper. But there's three hoops, or three goals. I probably have the easiest job on the pitch."_ _

__"What do you do?" Barclay asks Tom. His eyes are so pretty._ _

__"I'm the Seeker," Tom says, with no small amount of pride in his voice. "It's the most important player, if I say so myself."_ _

__Tom can see Casey roll his eyes, but Barclay seems intrigued._ _

__“The Seeker is the one who closes the game,” Tom explains. “There’s a small golden ball, the Snitch. The Seekers - each team has one - try to catch it. The game only ends when the Snitch is caught and the team who caught it earn a hundred and fifty points, so usually they win.”_ _

__"A hundred and fifty points?" Barclay sounds scandalized. "What's even the point of the other players? And why did that scary girl have a bat?"_ _

__Casey involuntarily rubs the back of his head at the mention of Parisa and her Beater's bat._ _

__“Well, there are three more balls,” Tom explains. He’s good at this. He’s explained the rules to his kids dozens of times. “Two Bludgers and one Quaffle. The Quaffle’s the biggest one. The three Chasers pass it around and try to throw it through one of the three hoops the Keeper is watching. Every time they do, they score ten points.”_ _

__“That’s not a lot, compared to one hundred and fifty,” Barclay says._ _

__“No, but the Snitch is very small and very fast. It takes a while to catch it, usually. So if your team is good, they can get enough points so you’ll win even if the other team catches the Snitch.”_ _

__“And the bats?” Barclay asks._ _

__"Those are to keep the Bludgers away from your teammates and hit them towards the other team," Tom says. "The Bludgers are very heavy and quite fast and they exist to knock you off your broom. Normally, I'm the target. So that girl, Parisa, and Jake, who just left, their job is to keep the Bludgers away from me and try to knock the other team's Seeker off their broom for long enough that I can get the Snitch first."_ _

__"But couldn't that... I know you said it can't kill you, but couldn't they break some bones falling from that high?"_ _

__"Yeah," Tom admits. "I broke my legs this morning."_ _

__Barclay looks shocked and worried and confused at the same time at the news. His gaze flits down to Tom’s legs, sprawled along the sofa and curled underneath him respectively. There’s a beat or two where he doesn’t seem to be checking for injuries anymore, if the look in his eyes when he meets Tom’s again is any indication. Tom bites down on his smirk._ _

__“But you seem fine,” Barclay says._ _

__“Well, yeah,” Tom says with a shrug. “It was only broken legs. Our team mediwitch grew them back together.”_ _

__“Just like _that_?” Barclay asks, aghast. “I broke my arm once! I had to be operated on and wear a cast for a month!”_ _

__"That sucks, bro." Casey nods, commiserating. "The first time I got on a broom, I cried because I was so scared of falling. But then the first time I fell, I broke my arm, and I was fine a few hours later. That part of it all's really sweet."_ _

__Barclay is quiet for a minute. "So my parents could have cured it right away. And they chose not to."_ _

__Tom and Casey exchange a quick look._ _

__“It’s not quite that easy,” Tom says. “Not everyone can do it. Muggles have specialists for things as well, don’t they? You need the proper training to grow bones back together, otherwise things could go wrong.”_ _

__"That happened to Harry Potter once, didn't it?" Casey asks. "I read it in Ginny Weasley's column once. Some idiot removed his bones instead of repairing them."_ _

__Tom nods. “Yeah. He had to regrow all the bones in his arm. It took quite a while, I think. And it’s not pleasant either.”_ _

__Barclay's eyes are round as knuts. "But you can do it. If you had to." He drains the last of his pumpkin juice. "So why can't you fix dead people?"_ _

__“Cause there’s nothing to fix,” Tom says. “Body parts are just body parts. You could live without your arm, if you had to. But when you die, you just... go away. When you’re gone, you’re gone.”_ _

__"Well, that's depressing," Barclay says. "So all the things Muggle wars are over just don't matter to you at all. Like, religion and stuff. What happens after you die. And you've known that and didn't tell us. Them." He pauses, glances at Tom. "Us."_ _

__"It's not that simple," Casey says. "And there are ghosts, if that cheers you up at all. So there might be other things, like angels or whatever. I just haven't seen any. I've stopped thinking that things I can't see don't exist, though."_ _

__“There are ghosts? Actual ghosts?” Barclay asks, eyes still round. “So you’re not really gone, when you die? Can’t you put the ghosts back in the bodies, then?”_ _

__“No,” Tom says, “that’s not how it works. You’re supposed to be gone. Ghosts are only people who can’t cope with dying, so they stick around. It’s not a good thing, really.”_ _

__“Unfinished business,” Barclay says. Tom supposes that might be it. Casey grins._ _

__“Yeah, sort of. Only even if you finished it, you’d still be stuck as a ghost.”_ _

__"Oh. Well, that's also depressing."_ _

__"It's not always," Casey says. "There are loads of ghosts at Hogwarts. This one young guy haunted my dormitory and he had the best ideas for pranks, ever. I think... actually, I think he was Mr. Weasley's son."_ _

__“The one that died in the War?” Tom asks. He knows of course, that there are ghosts of former students roaming the halls of Hogwarts now. Far more than just Giggling Myrtle and her girlfriend. And he knows that some of those stick strictly to the Houses they used to go to so he shouldn’t be surprised that Gryffindor has them._ _

__“Well, all the other ones are alive and well,” Casey says._ _

__"Yeah, I guess so," Tom muses. "Wait, so was it his idea then that time you got the House-Elves to starch our team robes with bulbadox powder?"_ _

__"Yeah." Casey grins. "His brother doesn't own Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for nothing."_ _

__“You’ve lost me,” Barclay says, looking back and forth between them. Tom rubs at the back of his neck, while Casey laughs._ _

__“Sorry ‘bout that,” Casey says._ _

__“The Weasley’s are a pretty important family in the wizarding world, nowadays. They were very involved with the resistance during the War. It... It’s complicated, but they were pretty crucial to winning the war, especially the younger kids. One of them died during the Final Battle,” Tom explains._ _

__"And one of them is the love of Tom's life," adds Casey._ _

__Tom would hex him. He really would. Casey would have tentacles growing out of his face for the rest of his life if it wouldn't convince Barclay that Tom is literally evil._ _

__"She is not the love of my life," Tom says through his teeth. "I respect her. Professionally."_ _

__“Right. She was totally in your teenage wank bank,” Casey says with a grin._ _

__“She’s married to Harry bloody Potter and has been almost my entire life. She’s just an amazing Quidditch player and the best bloody correspondent the Prophet have had in decades.”_ _

__Barclay, luckily, seems more amused than anything._ _

__"That's alright," Barclay says. "Everybody's got their exceptions. That's like me and Mel B."_ _

__Casey toasts to that and they both laugh._ _

__Tom hates this Mel B. He would probably hex them, too._ _

__“Mine’s Harry Potter,” Casey says. Tom rolls his eyes._ _

__“Of course he is. Bloody Gryffindors.”_ _

__"Well, it would be Professor Longbottom, but he's our _professor_. That'd be kinda awkward, wouldn't it," Casey explains._ _

__"Awkward and full of bubotuber pus, probably," Tom laughs. "Can we stop talking about this? You're both terrible."_ _

__“Oh, I don’t know,” Barclay says, a bit more mischievous than he has been so far. “I’m learning a lot.”_ _

__"Yeah, but..." Tom wriggles unhappily. "Not about anything important! Like, ask us what we use instead of the telephone or how we keep food cold, or something. I got an O in Muggle Studies, so I can tell you."_ _

__"Or I grew up as a Muggle," Casey laughs. "And I can tell you better."_ _

__If it weren’t too obvious by half, Tom’d hit him with a tongue tie jinx. It’s not quite like Casey to so obviously throw a wrench into Tom’s flirting. And he’s seen it often enough to recognise it, surely._ _

__“Oh, er... I suppose the answer is always some form of magic, isn’t it?” Barclay says._ _

__"Yes, but... Casey, go get Lux and show him." Tom pushes Casey's shoulders until he's standing. Charlotte rises from her pillow and gravitates towards Casey's ankles, twining and purring, adoring him more than Tom just like everyone else in the room._ _

__Casey rolls his eyes but shoots Tom a look like he knows exactly what he’s doing and then scoops up Charlotte before trotting out of the room._ _

__“What’s a Lux?” Barclay asks._ _

__“Our owl. She delivers our post,” Tom says._ _

__“Wait, really? That wasn’t just Mr. Weasley? You _all_ do that?”_ _

__Tom grinned at Barclay and shrugged._ _

__“Well, yes. We need to get our letters around somehow, don’t we? And owls are magnificent creatures. Very intelligent.”_ _

__"There used to be a huge horned owl that lived outside my bedroom window," Barclay says slowly. Just as slowly, he gets up from his armchair and moves to the sofa, sitting beside Tom like he's waiting to be told to stop. Tom just smiles at him and scoots to make more room. "My parents never believed me, but it was there every night. I used to look at it from my bed and it would hoot at me."_ _

__“Maybe it was waiting to deliver some mail for you,” Tom says. Barclay looks at him consideringly for a few moment and then shakes his head to himself with a silent laugh._ _

__“I’m sorry, I know this is your life and all, but it just seems so... outlandish.”_ _

__"I have to say, mate, that was what I thought all through Muggle Studies," Tom admits. "You put illness in your blood to stop getting illnesses. You eat bacteria to get well. Electricity can keep you alive or it can kill you. You think there's actually a difference in the power between witches and wiz- I mean, women and men. It's all silly, isn't it? Everyone's a bit outlandish."_ _

__Barclay blinks at him the way Lux does when Tom wakes her too early but then grins._ _

__“Suppose you’re right. I’m just more familiar with our kind of silly. The Muggles’, I mean.”_ _

__Tom shrugs. He wonders how long it’ll take for Barclay to stop thinking of Muggles as “us” and wizards as “them”. If he’ll even want to._ _

__“Makes sense. Muggles seem sillier to me than wizards do too.”_ _

__Barclay smiles at Tom and reaches out as if for Tom's hand -- but then stops._ _

__"Why didn't you tell me? As soon as you knew?"_ _

__“I didn’t think you _didn’t_ know. I thought maybe you were a squib - er, that’s someone who’s born into a family of wizards but can’t do magic themselves - and you didn’t like magic for it or something,” Tom says. He shrugs awkwardly. Truth is, he’s not quite sure himself why he made such a hasty exist as soon as he found the Floo powder. Maybe part of him was scared Barclay was more than he pretended to be. Maybe part of him was just scared of how much he already liked Barclay. Most of him just probably wasn’t thinking._ _

__"Why would anyone not like magic?" Barclay sounds angry, but Tom doesn't think -- doesn't _think_ \-- it's at him. "Look at your legs! They were broken hours ago, and you're fine. And you can go wherever you want to go in an instant. For no money. You can get whatever you want. There are so many things... my parents could have given -- we could have had..."_ _

__Tom’s not sure what he’s supposed to say here. Barclay seems so torn between being fascinated by what’s happening to him, confused about everything and possibly... angry at his parents? Tom would understand. If they’d kept something this huge from him, Tom would be angry too._ _

__“It’s not quite that simple. There are things you can’t do even with magic. We can’t Apparate very far, for instance. I couldn’t go to France like that. And portkeys to go long distances are regulated very strictly. They cost money too. We don’t just all go about doing whatever we want.”_ _

__That seems to mollify the boy somewhat, but there's still a deep wrinkle between Barclay's brows._ _

__Tom touches it gently with the pad of his thumb. If there were something easy to say, he would. He never meant for any of this to cause... anything. An orgasm or two, and maybe some pleasant memories, but there's no way that he could have predicted all of this. It's his fault, Barclay's unrest. Tom can feel it in the pit of his stomach._ _

__"It's not your fault," Barclay mumbles. "It's a good thing, in the end. It's just a lot to take."_ _

__Tom gapes at him probably rather unattractively and then shakes his head with a laugh._ _

__“Was it that obvious what I was thinking?” he asks._ _

__Barclay shrugs his shoulders ruefully and laughs a little himself._ _

__“I suppose so. It was all over your pretty face.”_ _

__Tom preens. "It is rather pretty."_ _

__There's a warm fluttering sound and then Casey yelps, coming around the corner with Lux beating her wings against the tilt of his quiff as Charlotte scrabbles desperately with her claws up his chest, trying to get to the taunting owl._ _

__"Is it safe to come in?" Casey gasps. "Someone needs to take this cat."_ _

__Barclay jumps up to help immediately, grabbing Charlotte and plopping her down on Tom’s lap._ _

__“Thank you,” Casey says, with a pointed look at Tom, who’s holding Charlotte back and trying to bribe her into staying out with head scritches. Barclay looks between Charlotte and Lux and then laughs._ _

__“You keep a cat and a bird?”_ _

__"They normally get on like a puffskein and a stuffy nose, but they're both right prats today." Casey lifts the owl, whose head as turned backwards, down from his shoulder. "There. This is Lux. Tom wanted you to see her. This is her."_ _

__“What’s a puffskein? Do you have one of those as well?” Barclay asks and then reaches a tentative hand out towards Lux before aborting the movement._ _

__“Is it alright if I touch her?” he asks._ _

__“Sure,” Casey says with a shrug. “She might nip you in the finger, but nothing we can’t fix.”_ _

__Barclay reaches out again and runs the tip of his index finger along the mottled, spotted feathers of Lux's wing, the color of a tortoiseshell. Her chest ruffles as she turns her head back around to examine Barclay with watchful brown eyes._ _

__Tom watches them closely, grin spreading out over his face. It’s nice to be able to show Barclay something good about all this, something that he can touch and enjoy. Tom doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to learn how to do magic. He doesn’t know what happens to it when you never use it. Does it just go away? It’s a terrifying thought, if he’s being honest._ _

__“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Tom asks. “Aren’t you, girl?”_ _

__Lux hoots at him._ _

__"She's got a funny face," Barclay says. Lux turns her head upside-down and continues to stare. "Not in a bad way! I just think her feathery nose is fun. I wish I had one."_ _

__“A feathery nose?” Casey repeats and laughs. Barclay grins a bit sheepishly._ _

__“Why not? It’d be something else.”_ _

__"I like your face the way it is," Tom says. He touches Barclay's cheek with the hand Charlotte is not currently chewing. "It's the right amount fuzzy for you, I think."_ _

__Casey pretends to vomit, Tom pretends he can’t see him. Barclay, luckily, has turned his face from Lux to Tom and really _can’t_ see him._ _

__“You think?” he asks._ _

__“Yeah. I like it just like this.”_ _

__If Barclay had feathers, his chest would be ruffling. As it is, even Charlotte stops gnawing on Tom's knuckle long enough to look up at the pair of them and make a low-pleased noise._ _

__“Are you quite sure she’s not your familiar?” Barclay asks, looking down at Charlotte. “You could tell me, you know. I wouldn’t... want to do anything bad.”_ _

__Tom grins. "Nah, it's just there's no such thing. I keep my soul firmly inside my person, thanks. And she has her own little soul." He chucks Charlotte's chin. "Don't you, love?"_ _

__Charlotte meows at him once and lifts her little head, her eyes blinking shut slowly as she purrs under Tom’s fingers._ _

__“You can talk to her though?” Barclay asks._ _

__“I mean, I can talk to her,” Tom says. “I’m just not sure how much she understands.”_ _

__"Can't you ask?" Barclay's brow furrows again. "Aren't wizards meant to be able to talk to their animals? I mean, how else can you tell Lux where to deliver the post?"_ _

__“Well, when we bought her she was already trained. I’m not sure you can just take any old owl and hand her a letter,” Tom says. “And they’re very clever, birds are.”_ _

__Charlotte meows in protest and sets her teeth into Tom’s finger again._ _

__“I think your cat doesn’t like you saying that,” Barclay points out._ _

__"Yeah, well, she has a jealous streak," Tom mutters. Maybe he coos it. Charlotte is the best cat in the world._ _

__“‘s why she and Tom are such a perfect match,” Casey says. “They both need a lot of attention and a lot of petting.”_ _

__Barclay looks at Tom with eyes soft beneath his lashes. "I can do that."_ _

__Casey pretends to vomit again._ _

__“Oookay,” he says. “I think that’s my cue to go. Are you staying the night, Barclay? You’re more than welcome to our sofa. Or Tom’s bed.”_ _

__Casey takes Lux back as he stands. Barclay doesn't say anything, but looks down at his hands._ _

__"You don't have to sleep with _me_ in my bed," Tom adds. "I can sleep on the sofa. I don't mind. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."_ _

__“No, I just -- is it really alright if I stay? I don’t want to impose. I did just show up unannounced. You were probably thinking you’d never see me again and now you’re offering me a place to sleep again...” Barclay says._ _

__Tom reaches out to cover Barclay’s hands with one of his own._ _

__“I’m quite glad I saw you again, even if the circumstances are a bit unusual. Really. You’re welcome to stay. I’m sure you’ll have more questions tomorrow.”_ _

__Barclay nods. "I just don't really want to sleep in that house if I don't... I don't understand it."_ _

__“Well, there’s more magic in this house than there is yours,” Tom says in the name of full disclosure. “But it’s not really doing anything, usually. It’s just... there. I think it seeps in, from us doing spells and such.”_ _

__"So you really do?" Barclay asks. "Do spells? Not just have magic things and show up out of nowhere, but you have spells? With magic words? Like abra-cadabra?"_ _

__Tom and Casey, still with the owl on his shoulder, look at each other quickly._ _

__"Not like that one," Tom says. "And maybe... don't quite go around saying it near people you don't know."_ _

__Barclay frowns, pulling his brows together._ _

__“Did I accidentally say something really rude?” he asks._ _

__Tom fidgets a bit, unsure how much and how to explain._ _

__“Not _rude_ as such. There’s... a very bad curse that sounds very similar. Very, _very_ bad. We have three curses called “the Unforgiveables” because using them is, well, unforgiveable-”_ _

__“And I just said one of them?” Barclay asks, eyes wide._ _

__“Almost,” Tom says. “Just, like I said. Maybe don’t say it around people who don’t know you.”_ _

__"What'll it do if I, like. It won't kill someone if I say it, will it?"_ _

__There's an uncomfortable silence during which Charlotte turns over and stretches into a long cat-comma._ _

__"It will _kill_ someone?" Barclay sounds nearly hysterical. "Can a lot of spells do that? What if I accidentally kill someone?"_ _

__“No, no, no,” Tom says, reaching out for Barclay again. “You can’t do it accidentally. You have to... you have to really mean it. It’s evil. You can’t -- even if you had a wand and waved it around while saying that nothing would happen unless you really meant it to. It takes focus and intent. You’re not gonna hurt anyone.”_ _

__Barclay looks not to Tom, but at Casey, for confirmation._ _

__That does hurt. Not that Tom would admit it._ _

__“It’s a bit like having a gun where the safety won’t come off unless you really, really mean it. So you can’t even shoot someone accidentally,” Casey says._ _

__Tom knows about guns from Muggle Studies. He didn’t know that Muggles killed each other with them _accidentally_._ _

__"Oh," Barclay says. His mouth twists. "I don't love guns."_ _

__"No," Casey agrees. "Although I am very skilled with a NERF. I can get my brother in the belly quite hard."_ _

__Barclay laughs and Tom doesn’t understand what nerves have to do with anything or how Casey could use them to “get” his brother. But Barclay’s laughing, so he bites his tongue._ _

__Casey disappears towards the kitchen then to put Lux on her post for the night. The sound of an owl treat being shaken from the box alerts Charlotte to the fact that treats exist in the world and she isn't receiving one, so she leaps from Tom's lap to go corner Casey, too. Barclay watches her trot out of the room with a small smile before he turns back to Tom._ _

__“Thanks,” he says. “For having me and being so nice. Explaining.”_ _

__“It’s the least I can do, really,” Tom assures him. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t wanted to spend the night with a Muggle as some sort of adventure. Well, and because Barclay looked just as pretty then as he does now._ _

__Barclay picks up Tom's hand and plays with the fingers, looking them over like he's trying to find a pentagram, but softly and sweetly. "How _were_ you planning to get home? Just disappear?"_ _

__"You know," Tom says, and starts to laugh, "I didn't even think of it. I think you sexed the brains right out of my head."_ _

__Barclay grins at him at that and ducks his head a bit._ _

__“I think that’s why I left so suddenly when I found your Floo. Because suddenly there was an easy way home that didn’t involve somehow asking Casey’s brother to come get me,” Tom goes on. “I don’t even know how I would’ve let him know.”_ _

__"The telephone," Barclay says. "I mean, I have one."_ _

__"But I don't know his number," Tom says, and he's very proud of his Muggle Studies knowledge. "I'd have to ask the lady."_ _

__"The lady?"_ _

__"The lady on the end of the wire," Tom says. "Who connects the calls. From the big office."_ _

__"That was like... sixty years ago!" It's Barclay's turn to laugh this time._ _

__Tom feels himself flush a bit but shrugs with a chagrined look on his face._ _

__“Is that not something you do anymore then?”_ _

__“No,” Barclay says. “You just learn someone’s number, or save it to your phone, and call them directly.”_ _

__"Oh. Well, then I would have been stuck, unless you know Chet," Tom says._ _

__"No," Barclay says. "Not all Muggles know one another."_ _

__“Makes sense,” Tom says. “Not all wizards do either. Although most purebloods do. Most of us are a little bit related if we go back very far and we’ve been around so long it’s kind of unavoidable we’d get to know one another.”_ _

__Barclay's nose wrinkles. "Does that mean you and I are related? If my parents are both... wizards?"_ _

__“What’s your last name?” Tom asks, only now realising that he still doesn’t know it._ _

__“Beales,” Barclay says, hesitantly like he’s not sure he wants Tom to know. Or maybe just like he doesn’t want Tom to recognise it._ _

__“Then, no. We’re not related. No Bealeses in my family,” Tom says. “But you might be related to one of the others. Jake or James. They’ve pretty big families.”_ _

__Barclay looks a little hesitant. "Which is the one who hated me? James or Jake?"_ _

__"Jake, but he didn't hate you," Tom says -- a hair too quickly._ _

__Barclay gives him a look like “don’t lie”._ _

__“Well, he certainly didn’t like me,” Barclay says._ _

__“Jake doesn’t like many people,” he tries to joke, but sighs when Barclay’s face doesn’t lighten._ _

__“It’s a War thing,” Tom says. “It’s not really about you.”_ _

__Barclay tucks his leg beneath him, and that moves him closer to Tom. Tom doesn't mind at all._ _

__"So this War... it was a real War, then? Not just something my parents made a big deal over?"_ _

__Tom laughs a little at the idea. Wouldn’t that be nice..._ _

__“No, it was... definitely real. A lot of people died. A lot of people are in prison now, for things they did during the war. For being... on the wrong side.”_ _

__“What was the wrong side?” Barclay asks._ _

__“The one that wanted everyone dead. Or at least every witch and wizard born from Muggles. And all Muggles. Or, well, subjugated at least. But most likely dead,” Tom says._ _

__Barclay opens his mouth, then closes it again, thinking and quiet with his mouth very small._ _

__"I guess I can't say anything," Barclay says. "We tried to kill off you lot a few hundred years ago. But that's not fair, is it? It was hundreds of years ago. What did... Muggles... even do? To cause it?"_ _

__"Nothing," Tom says. "Like we said, sometimes wizards are mad, too. It's not always as harmless as wearing a swan for a hat."_ _

__Barclay stays quiet and Tom does too. The War is a difficult subject even with people who understand the environment of it. He doesn’t know how to explain about Voldemort and the Potters and all that happened since to Barclay. Not without scaring him off._ _

__“It’s strange to think that you, or some of you, wanted to kill us - and could, with just a word, if they wanted - and we don’t even know you’re there.”_ _

__Tom nods. He turns his hand over so that he can hold Barclay's now. There are scars on the knuckles, pink and shiny and different from the few that marr Tom's skin. Those are silver with the retention of magic. These are just scars._ _

__"It wasn't fair," Tom says. "Nothing about it was fair. I don't really remember it. I was four when it ended. I remember some things... I remember hiding. And my parents arguing. My brother and sister are older, so they probably know more."_ _

__"And Casey?"_ _

__"Casey lived like you," Tom says. "His parents didn't know anything about it. They really are Muggles."_ _

__Barclay nods and says nothing, but holds Tom’s hand back, holding it a little bit tighter than he did before._ _

__“Can I stay in your bed? With you?” he asks then, quite out of the blue. “I don’t think I want to be alone.”_ _

__Tom bites his cheek, but it doesn't stop the smile from spreading across his face. "Yeah, of course. D'you, erm, want to borrow some pyjamas?"_ _

__“No, I’m alright. I’ll just sleep in my boxers and t-shirt,” Barclay says. “Unless it bothers you?”_ _

__There isn't much about Barclay that could bother Tom, honestly. He knows that there will be, sooner or later; at first he'd loved how Casey insisted on doing the washing-up using Muggle methods, and he lived with Jake through an entire Sizzling Spicy Sphere snack phase._ _

__Then again he doesn’t know if Barclay and he will ever _live_ together. That’s maybe getting ahead of himself a bit._ _

__“No, I’m not bothered. Sleep naked, if you want to,” Tom says._ _

__That startles a laugh out of Barclay. "Er, maybe next time."_ _

__“You’re welcome to stay as many nights as you want,” Tom says with a wink._ _

__Barclay squeezes Tom's hand. "Let's start with the one. Well. The second one."_ _

__Tom stands, and Barclay follows. Tom points down the short corridor that leads away from the kitchen and living room towards the bedrooms. "Mine's on the left side, with the green bedding," he explains. "The one across with the red bedding is Casey's."_ _

__Barclay nods, and he trundles off. Tom heads to the kitchen instead to tell Casey that Barclay is planning to stay._ _

__Casey’s got a glass of pumpkin juice in one hand and the other curled around Charlotte’s head where he’s petting her. He looks up and gives Tom a soft smile when he sees him._ _

__“You heading to bed too?” he asks._ _

__“Yeah. Barclay’s staying. With me,” Tom says. Casey waggles his eyebrows and laughs when Tom rolls his eyes._ _

__“Well, it’s alright with me. I already offered him your bed,” Casey says._ _

__“Just wanted to let you know.”_ _

__“If I hear any strange noises, I’ll know not to check on you, got it,” Casey grins. Tom swats him over the head._ _

__“Hey, you should take him to Diagon Alley, if he still wants to know more about magic by tomorrow,” Casey says then._ _

__"That's a good idea," Tom says. "Thanks. And thanks for... you can explain things to him in ways I can't."_ _

__Casey shrugs._ _

__“Sure, mate. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like,” he says._ _

__Tom only nods and tries not to think about how he and Barclay will never have that, will never understand what it was like to grow up the way each other did._ _

__“Don’t worry, he’s still only interested in your ankles,” Casey teases._ _

__Tom lifts his robes in a coquette pin-up pose to reveal his ankles to Casey. Casey just sticks out his own foot and pulls the robe hem higher and higher until there's a bit too much breeze on Tom's upper thigh._ _

__“That’s quite enough,” Tom quips and pushes Casey’s foot away. Casey only grins at him._ _

__“You’re not my exception anyway,” Casey says and smacks a kiss to Tom’s cheek just to annoy him as he passes._ _

__Charlotte drops to the floor with silent feet and bumps her head against Tom's (very sexy) ankles, begging for her nightly food. Tom fills her dishes and _nox_ es out the kitchen lights._ _

__He finds Barclay in little chartreuse pants and a white t-shirt, stroking the walls of Tom's bedroom with a concerned look on his face. "I can't find your lightswitch."_ _

__“Oh, er,” Tom says and plays with the fastenings of his robes. “It’s magic.”_ _

__Barclay stops caressing the walls. "Oh. Of course. Right."_ _

__In deference to his guest, Tom actually puts the robes in his laundry basket instead of leaving them on the floor. "Do I need to put on a t-shirt too? Are you alright?" Barclay is staring at him a bit goggle-eyed, so Tom tries again. "I can put a shirt on, if you need."_ _

__"Do you... you don't wear trousers under those robes?" Barclay asks. "Every day?"_ _

__“Um... no?” Tom says. “I do for quidditch. Because brooms get quite uncomfortable otherwise.”_ _

__Barclay looks like he isn't really sure what to do with this information. Instead he just sits on the side of the bed like his legs are tired of standing, and he stares at Tom as he finishes changing._ _

__Tom hesitates a bit before slowly approaching the bed - and Barclay on it - when he’s done._ _

__“Are you freaking out?” he asks. It’d be a bit funny, at least, if Tom’s lack of trousers was what finally proved too much for him._ _

__"I am!" Barclay drops his face into his hands. "I don't know why, really. I didn't when I saw you on a flying broomstick."_ _

__“Well, I suppose I’ll just be flattered that you’re freaking out about my legs and not my broomstick,” Tom says. Barclay looks at him, then looks down at Tom’s crotch quickly before dropping his face back into his hands, shoulders shaking in silent laughter._ _

__“Oh, that’s not what I meant!” Tom protests._ _

__"Of course it's not," Barclay says wryly. "Didn't even cross your mind."_ _

__"It didn't!" Tom says. "I'd rather like if you went a bit silly at the thought of my broomstick, to be honest."_ _

__“All of you makes me go a bit silly,” Barclay mumbles, smiling shyly. “You know that. You were there.”_ _

__Tom smiles and pulls back the duvet. He climbs into one side of the bed, and Barclay into the other._ _

__“So... lights?” Barclay asks._ _

__“Nox,” Tom whispers and the room obediently falls into darkness._ _

__“Neat,” Barclay says, voice automatically pitched lower in the darkness._ _

__"It's not a hard one," Tom says. "Once you get a wand, that'll be one of the first you learn. It's harder to make light than take it away."_ _

__"Just like life."_ _

__"Very philosophical."_ _

__“Hm,” Barclay hums. “That’s me. All over that philosophy.”_ _

__Tom laughs quietly and then reaches out a hand to poke at Barclay._ _

__"I'm glad you came to find me," he says._ _

__Barclay catches Tom's wrist before he can pull away, and then they're facing each other in the dark._ _

__"I had to repay you," Barclay says. "You found me first."_ _

__Tom chuckles a bit._ _

__“I wasn’t looking for you,” he says._ _

__“Doesn’t matter, you found me anyway,” Barclay insists._ _

__“Well, it is my job to find small golden things, I suppose;” Tom says. Not that there’s really anything small about Barclay._ _

__Barclay grins like he knows it, teeth white in the dim light._ _

__“Don’t Floo away tomorrow morning,” Tom mumbles, feeling the day’s exhaustion catch up with him. His eyelids are getting heavier, dragging down. He’s got Barclay’s face stored in his head anyway. He doesn’t need his eyes._ _

__“Don’t even know how,” Barclay says._ _

__Tom hums pleasantly._ _

__He falls asleep with his wrist still caught in Barclay’s hand._ _

__

__The next morning, Tom wakes as he usually does to the sound of Charlotte's loudest morning purr. It’s by far preferable to waking up to Jake’s snoring like he had at Hogwarts._ _

__When he stretches, his foot bumps into another body and for a moment his heart makes a valiant attempt to jump out of his throat, before he remembers. Barclay._ _

___Barclay_._ _

__Tom opens his eyes and there's Barclay, lying very still in Tom's bed, under Tom's green duvet, with a stripe of sunlight from Tom's window making his brown eyes shine like they're made of amber._ _

__Charlotte rests on his chest, purring away, her little Bertie Botts toes tucked up against Barclay's t-shirt._ _

__“Morning,” Tom says, smile spreading out slow over his face. What a sight to wake up to. He’s not sure who he’d rather give a cuddle right now._ _

__“I’m not sneezing,” Barclay says._ _

__“No, you’re not,” Tom confirms, amused by the statement. Why would Barclay be sneezing? Tom’s room may not be in pristine shape, but he’s no slob. He dusts._ _

__With a very slow, careful hand, Barclay pets Charlotte's soft fur. Her purring only intensifies, so he keeps on._ _

__"I should be having an allergy attack," Barclay muses. "But I'm not."_ _

__“Maybe you’re not that allergic,” Tom suggests. He reaches out to tangle his fingers in Charlotte’s fur as well. If they bump into Barclay’s there, well, that’s only a bonus._ _

__Charlotte turns her head to look at Tom with enormous blue eyes._ _

__"No, I definitely am," Barclay says. "Or at least I was. Are you sure she isn't a magical cat?"_ _

__“As far as I know she’s just a normal cat. No more or less magical than any other cat you might’ve come across,” Tom says. “I can ask my mate, Chris, he works with magical animals.”_ _

__Barclay's eyes light up at that. "Really? Like dragons?"_ _

__"Well, no. He _has_ worked with dragons, but he doesn't normally." Tom sits up and stretches. "Bit difficult, dragons. They mostly just do as they please."_ _

__“But there are dragons?” Barclay asks, eyes still bright like the sunshine. “Actual dragons? Huge lizards with wings that breathe fire? Those _exist_?”_ _

__"Well, their wings don't breathe fire," Tom quips, "But their noses do. And yeah, they are real. I haven't personally seen one in real life, but we did learn about them."_ _

__“So there aren’t any in the UK?” Barclay asks, looking a little dejected. Tom can understand. He thought dragons were the coolest animals as well, when he was younger._ _

__“No, there are a few. Just... very few. And they’re kept well away from the Muggles so as to not cause panics,” Tom says. “Except that one up in that Scottish Lake. That was a bit of a fuck up.”_ _

__Barclay's face lights like _lumos_. "That's fucking brilliant."_ _

__Tom grins._ _

__“We also have unicorns and hippogryphs and pygmy puffs. You can get a pygmy puff to keep as a pet even. They’re just balls of fluff with eyes and a sex drive.”_ _

__"Are you a pygmy puff?" Barclay asks. When Tom scowls, he just laughs and keeps petting Charlotte. She looks nonplussed with the way his chest moves with each burst of laughter. "Sounds a bit like rabbits, to be honest. I used to have a rabbit, but I gave it to my sister."_ _

__“Not quite like rabbits. They’re really just moving hairballs,” Tom says. “Rabbits are cuter, to be honest. They have cute little noses and ears.”_ _

__"Not the one I had," Barclay says cheerfully. "I mean it _had_ them, they just weren't that cute. Wait -- did you say there are _unicorns_?"_ _

__Tom laughs, rolling away a bit, before turning back to Barclay._ _

__“Yeah. They’re very pretty, but very shy.”_ _

__Tom clambers out of bed and stretches again, touching his toes. "Fancy tea or anything before we go? There are lots of places to eat in Diagon Alley if you'd rather."_ _

__Barclay wrinkles his nose and his brow like he’s concentrating very hard._ _

__“How do you eat diagonally?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pre-written before V left for her grad residency. It'll be around two weeks before the next chapter is posted. Sorry! :(


	4. Tom Mann and the Embarrassment of Ophiuchus

** Tom Mann and the Embarrassment of Ophiuchus **

When Tom explained Apparating to Barclay, he’d just nodded along, grinned, and said “Like in Star Trek. Beam me up, Scotty,” neither of which made sense to Tom, since Apparating had precious little to do with stars and Tom was decidedly not a Scotsman. But Barclay’s grin was so excited and Casey laughed and said “basically” and... well. Tom didn’t want to seem out of the loop so he grabbed Barclay’s arm and with a thought and a burst of magic pulled them out of Casey and his living room and right behind the Leaky Cauldron.

Barclay stumbles as they land, his knees weakening, making Tom tighten his grip on his arm.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Barclay's face is pale and his knees seem a little shaky. "Why is there so much _spinning_ in magical travel? I saw you spin in my fireplace, too."

Tom blinks. He’d never thought to question it.

“I don’t know,” he says. “There just is.”

Come to think of it, there’s spinning involved in portkey travel too. Huh.

Barclay swallows hard and shakes his head as thought to clear it of water. "Well, you should work on that. With your fancy magic."

“They’re not much for innovation,” Casey says. _They?_ Tom thinks, eyebrows hiking up his forehead even as his jaw clenches at the grin Barclay and Casey share, with him so clearly on the outside of their understanding.

"Well," Tom says, "There's no more spinning for now. We're here."

"Here where?" Barclay looks around at the space behind the Leaky Cauldron, at the rubbish bins and broken bottles and the brick wall trapping them from the street. "I didn't think you meant an 'alley' so literally."

Tom grins at him over his shoulder and winks.

“Patience, dear,” he says and then turns back towards the bricks, counting them out to find the right one and resolutely trying to fight off the blush. Christ. Now is probably not the time to try for a longer romantic attachment than their one night stand, but Barclay is _here_ and he came to _find Tom_ and frankly Tom’s not so sure what else he’s supposed to do with that and how happily it makes his belly squirm whenever he thinks about it.

He taps the brick with his wand and steps back.

The bricks begin to unknit their knit, unweave their weave, move and melt and glow and when they part, Diagon Alley shines like it has its own sun.

"Holy shit," Barclay whispers. "It's the Emerald City."

Casey snorts to Tom’s left, while Barclay is transfixed to his right, his eyes darting around, trying to take in as much as possible. His mouth his hanging open a little and Tom thinks he should probably get Barclay to close it, but he looks so... sweet like that. So amazed.

"This is Diagon Alley," Tom explains. "It's like our... High Street," he tries, remembering from Muggle Studies. "I thought we'd just look around here, because it's more like... fun stuff than boring household magic."

“It definitely doesn’t look boring,” Barclay agrees. Tom’s been here too many times to still be as wide-eyed with wonder as he used to be as a kid, but he does remember how exciting trips to Diagon Alley were when he was younger. How exhausted he was every time they came home, all the excitement and running around draining him of energy.

"It isn't," Tom promises. "And my friend Chris works at the Magical Menagerie, so I thought... well, he knows about dragons and things."

"Your friend?" Casey squawks. "He was my friend first!"

_Details._

Tom rolls his eyes.

“Our friend Chris, who was Casey’s friend first,” he amends. Barclay chuckles like he thinks their antics are funny, so there’s that at least.

“Is that where we’re going first?” Barclay asks. “The Menagerie?”

“We can, if you want. Or we can just wander and look at anything you want,” Tom says.

"I want to look at everything!" Barclay actually skips a little, his heels clicking on the cobblestone. He grabs Tom's hand.

Tom pretends he’s not flushing and since Casey’s feet shuffle along behind them, he mercifully gets away with it. Merlin’s beard, he should reign this in. It’s just waking up with Barclay was so lovely and now spending the day with him seems... magical, in a way that has nothing to do with anything Tom learned at Hogwarts.

Slytherin didn't have any Muggleborns, is the other thing, and Tom always thought it looked kind of... fun, to see the older Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws at the other tables in the Great Hall introducing their new Firsties to Howlers and the Owl Post and Bat-Bogey Hexes. Now it's his turn.

“Well then,” he says, slipping his hand more solidly into Barclay’s and stretching out his other one. “Where to first?”

The first two shops are the apothecary and cauldron shop, but Tom can already see Quality Quidditch Supplies’ sign gleaming in the sun and tries his hardest not to steer Barclay towards it.

Barclay licks his lip of drool and stares, wide-eyed, at the mothers in robes toting babies gumming at giant lollies and the old wizened wizards tutting at each other over long parchment lists. "Give me the Tom Tour. Your favorite places. Casey, too."

_Casey, too_ Tom repeats mockingly in his head but then catches Casey’s eye and grin.

“Quality Quidditch Supplies,” they say at the same time. Barclay perks up.

“Quidditch? That’s what you do for a job, right?”

"That it is, my friend," Casey sings, and starts marching towards Quality Quidditch. He pauses at the Millimant's Magic Marquees window to make sure that his quiff looks just right -- just like it did on the day the team roster photos were taken. Their poster is up in Quality Quidditch.

Tom is about to tease him for it, but then thinks better of it. Maybe Casey’ll get lucky and find a girl impressed by the fact his face is on a poster. And then maybe Tom’ll get Barclay to himself for the rest of the day. He may be best friends and roommates with a Gryffindor, but Tom’s not a Slytherin for nothing.

He may check his own hair in the window's reflection on their way, too. He _is_ the Seeker after all, and he performed brilliantly in the weekend's match. It's a good thing Barclay grabbed his non-autograph hand.

There aren’t many people inside Quality Quidditch, but it is one of those shops that never wants for customers and Tom can tell the exact second a group of girls who look like they’re barely out of Hogwarts make the connection between the posters hung up on the wall and Tom and Casey’s faces.

Barclay makes it too.

“Totally Becks,” he says. Casey snorts.

“Trust me, he’s not all _that_ ,” he says. Tom would like to protest, but frankly, he still doesn’t know enough about this Beckham to be able to say anything with any authority. He’ll have to look it up.

Barclay says it like a compliment, but Casey like an insult. Interesting.

Frankly, Barclay's opinion counts more. He has a nicer bum than Casey, and Gryffindors have terrible taste in most things.

Tom wonders what House Barclay would have been in.

“Well, either way,” Barclay says. “Did you just want to show off your poster or are you going to explain some things to me?”

"We'll explain the game," Tom says. "Or, I will explain the game. I was Quidditch Captain in school, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," Casey grumbles. "Ponce."

Tom demonstratively turns his back on Casey.

“I did say a bit about this yesterday, but I’ll just point things out as we go, alright?” Tom says to Barclay. Barclay nods and then lets Tom drag him over to the display of balls.

“Okay, so these big red ones are called the Quaffle. There’s only one in play. The three Chasers of each team pass it between themselves and try to throw it through one of the three hoops the Keeper guards to score,” Tom says.

“That’s what Casey does, right? Keeper?”

Of course he remembers what Casey does. "Right. He used to play a Chaser back in school, but Parisa -- she's the girl you met with the bat -- always knocked him out."

Barclay makes a face like he remembers that part.

“They hit other balls that hit you, right?” he asks. Tom nods and points at the crates of - inactive - bludgers.

“There are two of those in each game and two Beaters - like Parisa - to each team. The balls are called Bludgers and they move on their own, gunning for whoever’s closest. The Quaffle doesn’t move by itself. And the Beaters use their bats to hit the Bludgers towards the opposing team or at least away from their own,” Tom says.

Barclay looks at the Bludgers with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue. "Can I see one go?"

Gryffindor, maybe, Tom thinks with a bit of fond regret.

“Not in here, but I’ve got practice ones at home. I can show you when we get back, if you want,” he says.

Barclay smiles at him.

“You’ll stay close and protect me, right?”

Tom grins. "'Course. Although I may need to borrow Parisa's bat."

Barclay grins back and ten points at the row of shiny Snitches sitting in their cushioned little boxes.

“So are those the balls you play with?”

Tom catches Barclay's eye and yes, that was intentional. They both snort.

"Sometimes," Tom says carefully. "In the game of Quidditch, yes."

“They’re pretty,” Barclay says and leans forward to study them, like he hadn’t just made the most blatant innuendo. The tips of his ears have gone red and Tom ducks his head to hide his smile as he tries to get it under control.

“They are, yeah. They’re fast, as well. There’s not much time to admire them while they’re zooming around and you’re trying to catch one. There’s only one in the game, like the Quaffle, and the two Seekers each have to try and catch it first.”

“For ridiculously many points.”

“For a hundred and fifty points, yeah,” Tom says. It seems perfectly reasonable to him, given how difficult it is to catch the blasted thing, compared to the relative ease of scoring past the Keeper, but then, he’s played it all his life.

"Why does it need wings?" Barclay asks. "The Bludgers don't have wings, but they still fly, don't they?"

“Well, originally they used these tiny birds, Golden Snidgets. They were the same size as these balls and they had wings and they usually got crushed when they were captured. So now they’re a protected species and... the wings are there for tradition reasons, basically,” Tom says. He’s got Quidditch Through the Ages at home (of course). He could probably recite the whole thing for Barclay’s pleasure, but he’s not convinced it’d actually be to Barclay’s pleasure, so he’s trying to curb his enthusiasm.

Barclay looks very sad for the fate of the Golden Snidgets. "Have you seen one? Or are they like dragons, then?"

"I saw one when I joined the Magpies, which is my team. The coach keeps one at her office just for show. It was faster than the ball, so I'm glad I'm not expected to catch it." Tom scratches his chin. "I'd feel bad crushing birds."

"That's a relief," Barclay says. "I worried maybe you were the evil kind of wizard."

Tom's belly curdles a little. He knows that Barclay doesn't mean it, but why did his parents have to name him Tom? He’s proud of his family and he’s proud of being a Slytherin but he can’t say he hasn’t had his share of suspicion because of it. He's not looking forward to when Barclay starts asking questions about evil wizards and the War more directly.

Tom takes a minute too long to grin like Barclay’s just made a joke, and Barclay squeezes Tom’s hand in apology, judging by his contrite expression.

“Sorry, I didn’t... I’ll try harder to remember that you’ve had a war.”

“‘s not your fault,” Tom says, surprised but grateful that Barclay knows just what to say. Barclay grimaces in a nervous smile and the suddenly heavy atmosphere between them will not do.

"Anyway! Want to see our poster?" Tom asks loudly. "Casey's probably standing under it, so hopefully he still has his robes on."

"Do you do that, like, 'the fittest men of Quidditch' calendars?"

“Er, yeah, Witch Weekly does one,” Tom says and tries to look non-chalant about it. “I’m not in it. Or Casey. Jake is though.”

_Stop talking, Tom._

Barclay's brow wrinkles. "The short one who hates me?"

“No accounting for taste, is there,” Tom grins.

Barclay just looks at Tom with eyes as soft as the Snidget's feathers had been beneath Tom's fingers when he got to give its little fluffy head a gentle, tiny stroke.

“I’d rather have one of just you,” he says, voice low. “But I suppose there’s no accounting for that, either.”

“No, you have excellent taste,” Tom says and bites down on the inside of his lip, lest he lean over and kiss Barclay where they stand.

Barclay's ears go pink when they part. "Aren't you worried people might, like, know who you are, in here?"

"Well." Tom can't exactly answer without sounding like a prat. "They might, yeah. Probably. So what?"

"Can you do that? Be a Quidditch star and kiss, like... me. Men?" Barclay shifts his feet. "That's alright in your world?"

“Yeah, of course,” Tom says, brow furrowed, before realisation hits him. “Oh, is that one of those things Muggles don’t like? Like skin colour?”

Barclay shifts awkwardly from one foot to the next.

“Um, yeah,” he says. “It’s not so bad anymore, but in sports it’s... if you were actually a footie player and snogging a bloke, there’d definitely be a lot of negative talk.”

Tom squeezes Barclay's hand. "It is a bit harder for wizards like me, or James or Jake, who come from all-wizard bloodlines, since like... we probably won't be having kids. But my family don't care, and neither does the opinion of anyone I think matters. Really."

“Bloodlines,” Barclay repeats, like the concept is foreign to him. Then he huffs a little laugh. “I suppose wizards just get hung up on different things.”

He has no idea how true that is.

“We’re not so different, really,” Tom says. He’s not sure it’s true, but he thinks it might me. He wants it to be, at any rate, if it’ll make it easier for Barclay to stay. If it’ll make Barclay stay.

Barclay just nods. Tom can't read his face. Was that wrong? Did Barclay want this world to be so different from the Muggles?

"Anyway, I'll show you the League rankings and the robes and stuff," Tom says. "Mine are the classiest. Obviously."

“Obviously,” Barclay repeats, like he’s caught on to that particular part of Tom’s personality, while Tom pulls a black and white robe off the rack, a Magpie emblazoned on the front and another one on the back.

“Voilà,” Tom says, holding it up before his chest. Barclay laughs.

“Can I get one with your name and number on the back?” he asks, teasing.

“Yeah! Do you want one?”

Barclay raises an eyebrow. "I think I'll wait until I see a game. How do I know if you're really any good?"

The gall. Tom sticks out his tongue.

“I’ll just pretend you didn’t say that,” he says and turns to put the robe back. “What do you do, for a job?”

"Oh, I'm just a tire-fitter and apprentice mechanic," Barclay says. When Tom looks at him blankly, he explains, "I fix cars."

Tom can practically feel the way his eyes go wide and face lights up. _Cars!_

“That’s amazing!” he says.

"It's alright," Barclay agrees. He seems much more interested in the logo of the Ballycastle Bats robe in his hands than the fact that he _knows how to fix cars_.

“Alright?” Tom repeats, incredulous. Tom would think Barclay’s feigning modesty, maybe that he actually _is_ modest, if he weren’t studying the Quidditch robes and padded broom saddles like they were the most fascinating thing.

“You know how to fix _cars_!” he insists. “With all the parts and the fuel and the combusting!”

Barclay looks up, the look on his face a little strange but also a little amused.

“It’s just cars. Not, like, aeroplanes or spaceships.”

Oh. Well, that is a little disappointing, as Tom had assumed they all ran the same way. Just bigger or smaller. But still, cars are fascinating.

"Cars are fascinating!" Tom insists. "I used to know a kid who collected mufflers. He'd find them where they fell off cars on the waymotor and bring them home."

"D'you mean the motorway?" Barclay looks amused. "He should maybe give them back. They're a bit expensive."

Tom halts in his enthusiasm, feeling oddly chastised when it hadn’t even been him who’d collected them.

“He just assumed they wouldn’t be any good after they’d fallen off. No one ever seemed to stop to pick them up and take them with them.”

"Well, they're really hot when they first fall off. If you stop to pick it up, you get burned. But once it cools, you can go back for it or something and it saves money."

Tom bites his lip. Leo never really went into detail about how he came to have the mufflers. Just that he’d hover by the waymo-- motorway on his broom and Accio for things the cars dropped.

"Should I tell him to put them back?"

"It's too late now." Barclay's laughing, though, so it must be alright. "It didn't hurt anyone. It just makes the car loud. 'S why it's called a 'muffler.'"

"Oh," Tom says. "He thought maybe it was like for keeping the car warm. Like a scarf, but for cars.”

Barclay guffaws a laugh then, clapping a hand over his mouth and looking startled himself at the loud sound. Several people crane their heads to look at them, but Tom pays them no mind. He’s torn between feeling insulted and delighted at the look on Barclay’s face.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to... it’s just such a strange idea,” Barclay says.

Tom grunts. "See if I autograph your Magpies robes now."

“I’m sorry, really, I’m sorry,” Barclay insists, laughter gone, but his eyes still bright with amusement when he grabs for Tom’s arms, putting his hands on Tom’s elbows, then forearms and finally grabbing Tom’s hand again, like he’s not sure where to touch. “I’m not laughing at you, I just didn’t think there were things you didn’t know about us. At least not such simple things.”

Tom doesn't think cars are simple. There were whole books on the insides of cars in the Muggle Studies section of the library, and some even in the Restricted Section because they were full of burning and explosions and toxic gas. But Barclay doesn't even seem to notice that, so nonchalant about rooting around inside even when they're broken. It's brave, Tom thinks.

Maybe he _would_ have been Gryffindor.

“Well, there are,” he says, maybe a bit petulantly. “I took Muggle Studies in school though, so I do know some things.”

It seems important somehow that Barclay knows that Tom has always thought Muggles to be endlessly fascinating. Ingenious, really. Sooner or later Barclay was going to start asking about the War, about what it was that made his parents give up their lives and raise their children in ignorance of their true heritage and Tom would rather that Barclay know how he feels about Muggles before they do that.

"Muggle Studies?" Barclay still sounds delighted. "I should take that. I'd ace it, probably. Unless it's about history or spelling."

“It’s a little about history,” Tom says. Mostly it had been about Muggle households and their machines.

Barclay's nose wrinkles. "I couldn't even pass a class about my own self at wizard school, and you're impressed that I can tinker around in cars." He shakes his head. "Alright! I can't find your robes because I don't know your last name. Show me."

“Oh, it doesn’t have to already be on them,” Tom says and flicks through the robes before grabbing a Magpie one off the rack. “See? This one says ‘Perkiss’, but he hasn’t played for the Magpies in two seasons. You just get one in your size and they transfigure them for you when you check them out.”

Barclay's eyes go round as knuts. "They can just change it like -- " he snaps -- "That?" He shakes his head. "See, that's amazing. What about colors? If I decided I liked another team better, could I just change the colors?"

"No," Tom says tetchily.

He probably could.

Barclay squints at him.

“Really?” he asks. Tom sighs.

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“I was only teasing,” Barclay says, bumps his shoulder against Tom’s with a smile.

"Well, when I move up the ladder to Pride of Portree, we can see about a color-changing charm." Tom sniffs, but lets Barclay tangle their fingers together again.

“That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” Barclay says lightly, putting the robe back. “Are you just assuming I’ll be your WAG?”

Tom imagined a niffler's tail swishing side-to-side at top speed after it found a treasure for its keep. "Yes."

Barclay laughs again, if not as loudly as before, and then drags him over to the rows of books.

“Are these all rule books? Only it didn’t seem so complicated when you explained it earlier.”

"Oh, there are 700 fouls. And it's an old game, like hundreds of years of records. I don't know all of the rules, but some people get obsessed and study it all. And I think referees probably have to know all of the fouls, at least."

“ _Seven hundred_?” Barclay repeats, incredulous. “Do you just count every different way of knocking someone off their broom as a different kind of foul?”

“Of course,” Tom says, furrowing his brow. It’s not the same, is it, hitting someone with a tickling hex or freezing their broom. You mess with the player in the one and the broom in the other. And they could theoretically hold on, if they were good at withstanding the tickling hex.

"Do people die very often, playing Quidditch?" Barclay asks. His hand tightens around Tom's just enough to be noticed.

“No,” Tom says. “Especially not now. There are mediwitches and wizards at all the games and if you fall the Catchers will slow you down so you don’t hurt yourself too badly.”

The grip around Tom's hand releases just enough that his fingertips won't turn purple.

Tom grins. "C'mon. I'll buy you a robe and we'll make sure Casey's still clothed and move onto the next place."

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” Barclay tries to protest, but follows Tom through the shop anyway.

“How else will you be my ... wag?”

Barclay seems happy enough to see the PERKISS shift and restitch itself to read MANN across the back of a set of black-and-white robes, and Tom lets him try to catch a Snitch zooming around the shop. He manages before Tom can outdo him, but it's only because he's taller. That's the only reason. With a broom, Tom could have done it.

Barclay grins at him, bright and happy and not even smug - maybe not Gryffindor after all - and lets it go again, watching it zoom around the shop while Tom hands over the coins. Somehow he’s glad Barclay won’t know how much he’d spent on the set of robes, even if Barclay doesn’t know the first thing about wizard money.

The find Casey near the doors, surrounded by simpering witches and one or two shy-looking wizards. He's raked through the blond stripe in his hair so often that it's shiny, but Tom can't deny that it works as a move.

"Alright, Cay?"

Casey gives Tom a thumbs-up, and Tom rolls his eyes before pulling Barclay out the door.

“Are we just going to leave him?” Barclay asks, looking back at Casey and his adoring fans over his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t be very sporting to drag him away, would it?” Tom says.

"Why weren't you getting swarmed, if you're the best player?" Barclay sounds more indignant than curious.

“I was with you,” Tom says and shrugs. “And Casey’s far more interesting to watch on the field, for most of the game. Seekers are important, but they’re not particularly entertaining.”

Barclay _harrumphs_ in a way that Tom finds particularly satisfying, and they turn up the street to head towards the Magical Menagerie, where Chris works. Barclay curiously peers into shop fronts, especially the one where instruments are playing themselves. The shop window has now mercifully been soundproofed, as the instruments get quite competitive and instead of a pleasant harmony it was usually more of a cacophony of attention seeking solos.

“Do you play anything?” Tom asks.

"Guitar," Barclay says. "I write songs sometimes, too, but they're probably rubbish."

“Everyone always says that and then they turn out to be some sort of virtuoso,” Tom says. “Will you play something for me some time?”

"Sure." Barclay swings their joined hands. "After I get to see you win at Quidditch."

"That'll be the next game I play, innit?" Tom puffs.

“Cocky,” Barclay says. “When’s that then? Your next game?”

"Weekend after next. League play rotates." Tom pauses in front of Madam Malkin's. "Fancy a robe of your own?"

“Er,” Barclay says, eyes tracing the dark blue dress robes and multi-coloured everyday ones swishing softly in the window. “Thanks. I think I’m good in jeans.”

Tom sweeps his eyes down Barclay's long body, long legs and ropy thighs that felt good wrapped around his hips. "They do make your ankles look nice."

The tips of Barclay’s ears go a little red.

“Just my ankles?” he asks and pull Tom away from the shop window with a sideways smile at him.

“No, not just those,” Tom says.

A belled door jingles ahead of them, and as a tiny little witch pulls her father by the hand through the gap, chattering in a high-pitched voice to the kneazle kitten nestled in her other arm, a blast of noise emanates out onto the road.

Barclay startles a bit and Tom stops across the road.

“It’s a bit... loud and chaotic in there,” Tom warns.

"Nothing's going to... eat me, is it?" Barclay peers through the darkened glass door. "Or set me on fire?"

“Very unlikely,” Tom says. “They don’t sell anything that could eat you. And nothing that could set you on fire would be in the showroom, if they have anything in. I think you have to apply for licenses for everything that could be dangerous. Or anything large.”

"What about poisonous?"

“How poisonous?” Tom asks back.

Barclay blanches, and Tom laughs and opens the door.

Slytherin.

“Tom!” Chris greets him immediately from where he’s feeding the fwooper in its cage by the shop window. As all fwoopers Tom’s ever seen, it’s stunning to look at and seems incredibly wounded to have been silenced. “Thought you might come in. Have a had a gaggle of girls giggling over running into Tom Mann and Casey Johnson when they came in for kneazle food.”

"Hey, Chris, all good?" Tom can't help but to smile around him. A few crups come running over and paw up at Tom's knees, big eyes pleading for belly-rubs as their forked tails point to the ceiling in joy.

“All good, all good. There’s not much change in the pet business,” Chris grins. “Who’s your friend?”

"This is Barclay," Tom says, pushing Barclay a bit forward. The crup who's nosing around Barclay's shoes with an unsure half-growl in its throat squeaks and tips backwards onto its hindquarters. "He only just found out he's a wizard."

“Blimey!” Chris says, eyes wide. “And you brought him to Diagon Alley? For the full culture shock experience?”

Before Tom can answer, Chris turns to Barclay, offering him a hand.

“Hi, I’m Chris. I know this one from school,” he says.

"Hi," Barclay shakes his hand. "What... is this dog doing on my foot?"

Chris looks down at the crup, that’s still almost growling, but also almost wagging its tail, and then up again with a grin.

“Confused, probably. They don’t like Muggles, this lot. At all. So it’s trying to figure out which you are. Your clothes probably reek of Muggle, but you don’t,” Chris explains.

Barclay frowns. "Why don't they like Muggles?"

"I'm trying to train them out of it," Chris says quickly. "I take in rescues from er, less-nice houses than mine, though. That one there came from a really nasty situation, but he's a good boy." Chris squats right down and starts zhuzhing the crup's jowls. "Aren't you a good boy? Yeah, you're a good boy."

“They were bred as guard dogs, initially, probably,” Tom says, looking to Chris for confirmation. Chris nods.

“Yeah, they’re older than the statute of secrecy, when the whole Muggle-Wizard relations were even muddier than now,” Chris says.

"He won't poison me if he bites me, will he?"

"Nah, no!" Chris looks offended at the very thought. He scoops up the crup and stands so that he can offer Barclay its paw in a handshake.

Barclay reaches out for it carefully, but his face softens at the feel of the crup’s fur.

“You’re not a Muggle for one and for another they’re not poisonous. Don’t even bite, really, just get proper loud,” Chris says.

Chris buries his face into the back of the crup's ruff and gives it a smacking kiss. "By the time I'm done with him, he'll even let the Muggle Prime Minister give him biscuits. They're just animals; they act how their owners teach them to act."

“Makes sense,” Barclay says with a grin and then looks around. Tom follows his gaze, trying to imagine what everything looks like to Barclay.

“Does... does that fish have _legs_?” Barclay asks, eyes glued to an aquarium on the other side of the room.

"It's a Plimpy," Chris explains. "That one's seawater, 'cause they make better pets. I used to sell freshwater, but people was makin' soup from them and I do not run a fishmonger's, do I?"

“But why does it have legs?” Barclay asks again, stepping up closer to the glass to watch it swim back and forth.

“Dunnom” Chris says with a shrug. “Maybe it was halfway to a toad but changed its mind.”

Barclay makes a face. "People _eat_ them?"

"Not sane people, in my opinion."

“They don’t seem very tasty,” Barclay agrees.

“Nothing seems particularly tasty while it’s still moving around, does it?” says Tom, though he has to admit that Plimpies seem particularly unappetising.

The Plimpy pauses in its gulping swim, sees the boys watching it with its beady eyes, and inflates into a ball with alarm.

“Oh!” Barclay says. “Like puffer fish! ... with legs.”

“You’re really hung up about that,” Tom remarks, amused. Barclay stares at him incredulously.

“It’s a fish with legs. It’s like... the Missing Link or something.”

"Axolotls are Muggle fish with legs," Chris offers. "Think of it like that."

"I've never heard of an axolotl in my life." Barclay blinks. Chris looks disappointed -- or as disappointed as Chris can look, which in Tom's experience is still pretty content.

“Well, they’re Muggle fish with legs,” Chris says, bouncing back to his wide grin. Barclay grins back.

“What else have you got here?” Barclay asks. “What’s that pretty one in the window?”

"That's a Fwooper. It's had a Silencing Charm put on it -- don't look at me like that; it don't hurt it. I don't mess about with anything that hurts the animals. But if you don't Silence a Fwooper, you'll go mad."

“Why keep them as pets then?” Barclay asks, puzzled.

“Well, they’re pretty, ain’t they? And their feathers make excellent quills.”

Barclay looks thoughtful as he studies the Fwooper's iridescent feathers, the colors shifting as the sun hits them differently through the passing clouds outside the window. "Are all your pets a bit dangerous?"

"They're animals," Chris says simply.

“And the Plimpies don’t do anything. They’re just a bit annoying to Merpeople,” Tom adds. “And there are dangerous non magical animals too. I’d not want to meet a tiger in a lonely Alley without my wand.”

Barclay's face opens and he shrugs. "That's true enough. What the hell is that?" He points across the store to a large enclosure where a tortoise with a jeweled shell is poking its head out just far enough to nibble some lettuce.

Chris and Tom exchange a grin before Chris goes to explain.

“Fire Crabs. They’re from Fiji. Harmless, most of the time. Farts fire when attacked, though.”

"You said nothing would set me on fire!"

"I didn't think you'd attack a Fire Crab's behind," Tom says.

Barclay huffs and rolls his eyes, but Tom sees his lips curl into a slight smile. He lets his gaze swept over the store again, before his head snaps around to Tom.

“What were those you told me about yesterday? Fluffballs with eyes and sex drive? Are there any of those here?”

"Puffskeins!" Chris enthuses. "I've only the full-size here, but I am negotiating with Weasley's to get a license to sell the Pygmy Puffs. I think I like the regular a bit better, though, really. Harder to sit on 'em by accident."

“Can I see them?” Barclay asks excitedly and then follows Christ across the room to a large wooden crate on the floor.

“The only thing these might do is eat your bogies, but they usually wait till after you’re asleep for that,” Chris says.

Barclay laughs so hard he has to stop walking and prop his hands on his knees to stay upright. Tom is smitten. He's so smitten. It's so bad.

The door to the store opens then, admitting an elderly witch with a matching set of a pristine, bright emerald green hat and robe completely at odds with the twigs and leaves stuck in her wild grey hair. Chris smiles ruefully at Tom and hurries over to offer his assistance. Tom for his part reaches into the Puffskein crate and lifts one up into his arms, to show off to Barclay.

The ball of fluff is the color of pumpkin custard. It hums, vibrating lightly in Tom's hand, content whether he's holding it right-side-up or upside-down.

Barclay's eyes go gooey.

“Can I hold it?” he asks and opens his hands a bit.

“Sure, yeah,” Tom says, his fingers not-accidentally brushing Barclay’s as he hands over the Puffskein. It looks smaller in Barclay’s hands than it had in Tom’s. Tom bites the inside of his lip and tries not to think too much about why that is.

A skinny pink tongue pokes out of the fluffball and wraps around Barclay's thumb, quick as a wicket and then gone again. The humming intensifies.

Barclay giggles.

“Tickles,” he says.

Tom sort of wants to faceplant into the Fire Crab’s butt from the wave of fondness he’s hit with.

"They're cheap," Tom says. "Charlotte probably wouldn't bother it too much if I got one, or... you have a place zoned for magical creatures. If you can feed it bowls of milk, you can get it."

Barclay’s eyes widen.

“I could keep one at my house?”

“You’d have to get a permit for keeping magical animals from the Ministry and you’d have to keep it hidden from Muggles, but... yeah,” Tom says.

“How long until I get a permit?”

“Uh, I can, uh... keep it for you until you do? If you want?” he says. He should probably check with Casey first, but Casey is also most probably only going to laugh at him for two weeks when he finds out Tom’s offered to house a puffskein for Barclay.

"That would be amazing!" Barclay's eyes shine.

"Which one do you want?"

Barclay holds up the puffskein licking at his thumbnail. "This one, obviously. The gray ones are cute, too."

"Then get a gray one."

"I've bonded to this one," Barclay argues.

Tom doesn't have the heart to tell him that puffskeins are basically all exactly the same.

“Alright,” he says and puts a hand on Barclay’s back, leading him over to the check out counter where Chris is bagging something up for the elderly witch.

“If you tell me how much it is in pounds, I can pay you back,” Barclay says. “You’ve already bought me the robes.”

"It's really nothing," Tom says. "Puffskeins breed like there's no tomorrow, so they're really cheap. Not even a Galleon."

Barclay narrows his eyes.

“For all I know a Galleon could be a hundred pounds.”

Tom laughs and shakes his head.

“I promise it’s not,” he says. He can’t remember how much exactly it actually is, but he’s quite confident it’s not that.

"If it's a lot, promise you'll let me pay you back," Barclay says.

"You paid for our taxi to yours," Tom says, his voice low. "We're square."

Barclay smiles but ducks his head and sets the Puffskein on the counter when the witch shuffles towards the door.

“D’you have a middle name?” he turns to Tom to ask while Chris rings them up.

"A middle name?" Tom laughs. "You aren't going to name the Puffskein it, are you?"

“So what if I am?” Barclay says with a grin and an expectant tilt to his eyebrows, like he really thinks Tom’s going to tell him.

"No gobstones," Tom says firmly, and he rummages in his pocket for some coins. The puffskin's tongue starts to snake out towards the opening, too, but changes course at the last moment. It snatches a bit of lint off Tom’s robes and hums pleasantly.

Tom hands the coins over to Chris who hands back a receipt and grins at Barclay.

“It’s Ophiuchus,” Chris says, the traitor.

Barclay blinks twice. "What is? Is that like a disease the puffy thing has?"

“It’s my _middle name_ ,” Tom blusters.

Barclay blinks again.

He laughs so hard that he has to rest his head on the counter, and the puffskein's tongue zips straight up his nose.

Barclay makes a very unattractive half-snorting half-alarmed noise at it, prompting the puffskein to pull its tongue back and scoot away from him a bit and Tom and Chris to burst into laughter as well.

"You weren't kidding!" Barclay stands back up and wipes his nose and teary laughter-eyes. "Does it do that to be helpful or does it just like the taste?"

“It’ll eat anything so probably the second one. Just try not to think about it,” Chris advises, grin and eyes bright.

“Well then, Ophiuchus,” Barclay says, reaching out for it, his voice trembling over the name like he’s trying not to laugh again. “Is it even a boy?”

"I honestly don't think it matters." Chris reaches out to stroke the thing's head. Or bum. Whichever is currently on top. "I'm not sure even they know."

“Alright,” Barclay says. “Anything I need special for it?”

"I recommend keeping it in a basket so it doesn't roll under the furniture," Chris says. "But your pockets are alright, too. It'll poo in there, but it's kinda cute."

“Will it just poo anywhere? Do I need kitty litter?” Barclay asks, brows furrowed like they’re discussing matters of the utmost importance.

"I think it just eats it again, because it never gets to be a problem." Chris shrugs. "They're pretty easy."

"That's digusting," Barclay says but he's petting the puffskein - Ophiuchus, honestly, _a Puffskein_ \- and smiling so Tom doesn't think he's really all that bothered.

The humming reaches a fever pitch and, if anything, the puffskein becomes somehow fluffier under his fingers.

“Well, it’s yours now,” Chris grins. “If you ever need anything you know where to find me.”

Barclay's dark eyes glow. "I want to know everything about everything in here. Like what's that over there, with the hair? And the other one, with the shell? And why does that sparkly one fart fire?" He shakes his head and slips Ophiuchus into his shirt pocket. "I'll be back."

Chris laughs.

“Crikey, Tom, you should be buying him textbooks not pets,” he says. It’s not a bad idea, actually. Tom still has all his old Hogwarts stuff in a trunk under his bed. He could give it to Barclay.

“You’re welcome anytime, though,” Chris says to Barclay then. 

Barclay holds out his hand, and Chris grasps it. They grin at each other, and Tom wonders, _Hufflepuff?_

The door opens to admit another customer then and with a brief goodbye, Tom and Barclay leave the Menagerie behind.

"Now what?" Barclay asks, eyes still bright and excited.

"Are you hungry?" Tom asks. "I could go for a bite, myself."

“I could eat,” Barclay says with a shrug. “What’s good around here?”

"Ice cream," Tom says immediately. "That was always my favorite when I was a kid. Or like, a few weeks ago. Otherwise the Leaky Cauldron has some pub food, but sometimes it's dodgy."

“Dodgy how?” Barclay asks, squinting his eyes a bit at Tom like he can figure it out just from looking at him. “Dodgy like the milk’s gone off or dodgy like you grow a third leg?”

Tom looks pointedly at Barclay and mumbles something indistinct about his not needing a third leg.

Barclay blushes and grins and shoves Tom in the shoulder.

“Ice cream,” he says decisively and tugs Tom down the street by the hand a few paces until he stops again. “Er, which way?”

Tom laughs and squeezes Barclay's fingers. "You're headed the right direction. It's hard to miss it."

It really is. Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream had taken a while to bounce back after the War, or so Tom is told, and the ice cream isn’t _quite_ what it had been, or so Tom is told, but it’s still the number one destination for sweet treats in Diagon Alley. Elyas had even kept his brother’s name for the parlour when he’d reopened it.

Tom has looked forward to the sight of its giant ice-cream-cone marquee all his life. When he was a toddler, he even wrote a song about it -- or so he's told, every Christmas, once his gran gets drunk enough on Firewhisky to sing.

“Can we sit outside?” Barclay asks, eyeing the wrought iron tables that sit invitingly in a spot of sunlight.

Tom nods. "Sure. We may be swamped by autograph-seekers, of course."

"Oh, right, because you've had so many already today," Barclay teases back.

“I’ve just been shooing them off behind your back when you’re not looking,” Tom says and sits down primly, opening the menu even though he orders the same thing every time.

"These are weird flavors," Barclay comments. "Birchbark and wintergreen? Fizzing Wh... Whizbee? What's a whizbee and why's it fizzing?"

“Birchbark’s a bit of a nan flavour, I don’t think you’d like it. Fizzing Whizbee’s are.... a wizarding sweet. Mostly sugar and flavour and... fizzing,” Tom says.

Barclay looks suitably impressed, but keeps perusing the menu. Tom's already chosen his Banana and Bacon cone, so instead he leans back in his white wicker seat and looks around the view of Diagon Alley in the afternoon.

What would it be like to have never been here? Really?

It’s not too crowded today - a weekday and early afternoon at that, the older kids at Hogwarts and not too many parents with younger kids around to do some shopping - but there’s a lot of movement. Almost all the shops’ signs are moving, as well as the shop window decorations. Tom’s used to tuning it out, but it must be quite a lot to take in.

"A fortuitous welcome to Florean Fortescue's, gentlemen," squeaks a high-pitched little voice near Tom's elbow. "May I take your orders?"

Barclay's eyes bug and he stares with something like panic down at the house-elf in its neat pinstriped pillowcase and paper cap.

“Of course, thank you. I’ll have the Banana and Bacon cone,” Tom says and then nudges Barclay with his foot. “Barclay?”

"I, um," Barclay stutters. He pauses, then tilts his head, considering the house-elf's face. "What's your favorite?"

The elf blinks its large eyes, obviously unused to such a question but squeaks, “The Honeycomb and Bearclaw is a specialty, sir.”

“I’ll have that then,” Barclay says.

The house-elf smiles at him and squeaks a little, then bows and scurries off.

Barclay waits until the doors bang shut and it's well out of ear-shot before turning to Tom and whispering, "What was that?"

“A house elf,” Tom says. “They, um, work for wizarding families. And businesses, sometimes. There are a lot of them at Hogwarts too.”

"I think he recognized you," Barclay comments. He goes back to the menu and runs his finger down the columns until he finds the description of what he just ordered. "He was staring at your robes."

“Wouldn’t he be staring at my face if he recognised me?” Tom teases, affecting a pout.

Barclay laughs a little, but shrugs. "I suppose. But he noticed the robes straight off."

How does he know that? Tom looks at Barclay looking at the menu, watching as his lips mouth silently around the words of some of the stranger options, like Squid and Guava or Spicy Bumbershoot.

“Have you had every flavour here before?” Barclay asks then, looking up from his menu.

Tom shakes his head, nose wrinkled. "Nah, no. Some of them are too old-fashioned for me, and I don't like spicy things that much."

“Old-fashioned? How’s an ice cream flavour old-fashioned?” Barclay asks, looking down at the menu as if trying to find one.

"Well, the Eggshell and Antacid is recommended for ages a hundred and over." Tom points, leaning over until his cheek can rest against Barclay's shoulder. "There's also the 'Mild' Oatmeal option."

Barclay snorts a laugh.

“When’s oatmeal ever anything other than mild?”

“When you’re a hundred and over, I suppose,” Tom says. He sort of wants to stay here, with his cheek on Barclay’s shoulder.

“And Bertie Bott’s Bean Surprise is just not worth the risk,” he goes on, pointing it out. “They come in every flavour. Really _every_ flavour.”

"Like spinach?"

"Like dog doo."

"Who tests that for accuracy?" Barclay asks. The twist to his mouth is so cute from this angle.

“When you end up with that flavour in your mouth you sort of just take their word for it,” Tom says. “Tastes exactly how it smells, at any rate.”

"And people eat that? As a treat?"

"Well, it's one of those things it's fun to try as a kid," Tom says. "Or when you're drunk. Bertie Botts Roulette."

“I suppose kids do a lot of weird stuff. And drunk people,” Barclay allows. “Are they all horrible, or do they have nice flavours too?”

"Really nice ones," Tom assures him. "Strawberry and cheddar cheese and things like that. The waffle one is good."

Barclay hums and then points at another item on the menu.

“What about this one?” he asks. It’s Pumpkin Pie and Butterbeer, one of the safe, easy choices. Maybe Barclay wants Tom to stay resting his cheek on his shoulder too.

"That one's lovely," Tom says. "But it tastes sort of common. Everyone and their mother knows it, you know. Like that."

“I’ve never had pumpkin pie. Or butterbeer. How do you make beer out of butter? Is there really alcohol in it?”

"Just a little bit," Tom says. "Like how there's caffeine in chocolate. It's not for babies, but otherwise you wouldn't even notice. It tastes like... er, a bit like caramel? Not so much like beer."

“There’s caffeine in chocolate?” Barclay asks, then shakes his head. “No, wait, never mind, that’s not important. If it tastes like caramel, why’s it called beer?”

Tom laughs. “I don’t know! I didn’t name it, did I?”

"I'd like to try it sometime," Barclay says. "Oh, is it like root beer? Can you make a float with it?"

"It's liquid, so I doubt it floats." Barclay doesn't say half-mad things, but Tom likes it.

"Do wizards not have floats?" Barclay shakes his head. "That's a tragedy. I'll have to show you sometime."

Tom preens at the idea of being shown something from Barclay’s world. Maybe he’ll even show him a car one day!

“That’d be nice,” he says.

Barclay's arm slips around Tom's waist and they stay there, in the sunshine, watching the light bounce and splinter against the shine of Gringotts' white marble exterior.

"Excuse me, kind sirs." The house-elf is back, bowing so low that only his bat-like ears keep the paper cap on his head. He's holding two enormous ice cream cones aloft. "Your ice creams."

“Oh!” Barclay says, leaning forward for his cone and pulling away from Tom with the motion. Tom’s not a fan, but takes his own cone with a smile for the elf that’s somewhat more upright again.

The elf watches Barclay with no small amount of trepidation as Barclay takes his first lick of the cone. Even the elf's ears tremble with nerves.

Barclay gives a pleased hum and perks up in his seat.

“This is excellent!” he says, smile wide and eyes darting back and forth between Tom and the elf, like he’s not quite sure who to thank. They settle on the elf.

“Thanks for the recommendation.”

The elf bows again and rushes forward to shake Barclay's hand. "You're most welcome, sir. Glad to be of service, sir. Thank you, sir. I mean, you're welcome, sir."

Barclay’s whole arm moves with the force of the elf shaking his hand and he looks over at Tom with wide eyes.

“Thank you?” he says, glancing down at the elf, who just continues shaking Barclay’s hand where he’s bowed over it.

“Thank you,” Tom says, deciding to intervene, even if Barclay’s alarm is a bit amusing. “That’ll be all. You did very well.”

The house-elf beams, pumps Tom's hand a few times for good measure, and disappears with a flash of purple smoke and a loud _pop!_.

“Well, he’s very... enthusiastic,” Barclay says, watching the purple smoke dissipate.

"They like to help people," Tom says. He pauses. "At least, I think they do. That one seemed to be pretty happy you like the ice cream. You do actually like it, don't you?"

“I do!” Barclay says. “It’s good. Never had a pastry flavoured ice cream before.”

Tom smiles and takes a careful lick of his own cone. Banana, vanilla, and bacon explode on his tongue.

Barclay's eyes follow the movement of Tom's mouth on the bulb of ice cream, and Tom winks.

Barclay purses his lips against a grin and then puts his whole mouth against his own ice cream. The serving size is too big to get _in_ your mouth at once, but the way Barclay’s lips are pressed against it is a pretty sight anyway.

Barclay winks back and licks ice cream off his lips.

Tom sticks out his tongue. After the cold ice cream, the sunny air is warm and fresh. "Cheeky."

“You started it,” Barclay says, but grins. He seems relaxed now, eating ice cream here. Not at all as frazzled as he had when he’d showed up the day before.

Tom can't keep his head on Barclay's shoulder because it'll drip ice cream all down Barclay's shirt if he does, but they do keep their fingertips lightly tangled on the tabletop as they both eat their ice creams. It doesn't take as long as Tom would like.

“Are you still up for a little bit more?” Tom asks. He doesn’t really want to go back to the flat yet. Maybe Barclay’s leave if they go back.

“Yeah!” Barclay says immediately, sitting up a little more straight. “What did you have in mind?”

"We could look at the joke shop?" Tom offers. "There's lots in there you've never seen before."

“Sounds like fun,” Barclay agrees. “Lead the way!”

They swing their hands as Tom chatters about all of the things that he and James and Jake used to buy at the shop and use against Parisa in the Common Room, back in the day.

She always got them back twice as hard.

“She’s a bit scary,” Barclay says, no doubt thinking of her with her bat. Tom chuckles.

“She is. It’s part of her charm.”

"And that blonde one, was she in your... House, too?"

"Betsy? No, she was a Hufflepuff. Don't look at me like that; it's what the House is called! I'm not insulting her!"

“Alright, if you say so,” Barclay says, squeezing Tom’s hand placatingly. “So how many Houses are there?”

“Four. Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. When you start school, there’s this Sorting ceremony where you put on The Sorting Hat that reads your thoughts and puts you in one of the four Houses.”

Barclay's eyes shift from the windows of moving sparkles down to Tom. "Is that common? Thought-reading?"

“Not very,” Tom says. “It’s quite hard. Theoretically anyone can learn, but some people are naturally better at it than others. You can learn to block people from reading your mind as well. Usually when someone who’s not good at it tries to read your mind you’ll notice and everyone has sort of... natural defenses, I think.”

Barclay's brow wrinkles, but he nods. "So this hat reads your thoughts and chooses where you should go? Why wasn't Betsy with Parisa and you lot?"

"She's a different person," Tom says. "Just because she and P are soulmates doesn't mean they're exactly alike."

“Is that an actual thing? Soulmates? The whole two-halves thing?” Barclay asks, eyes wide.

"Oh, I don't know," Tom says. "I just think they belong together. Don't you have that idea in your -- the Muggle world?"

“Oh, no, we do. I just thought maybe you lot had found a way to be able to, like, tell when someone’s your soulmate,” Barclay says.

Tom shakes his head. "Nah. I think that's magic we can't do."

“How about love potions?” Barclay asks.

“Not real love. Only obsession or infatuation. They’re illegal anyway, except for the harmless doses they sell in chocolates. Those wear off pretty fast and they’re mostly for pranks,” Tom says. “I think they’ve made an entire generation of Hogwarts students wary of chocolates.”

Barclay makes a face. "That sounds very sad. Being wary of chocolate."

“Once you’ve followed your Herbology professor around for an entire day like a puppy it sort of happens naturally.”

Barclay bursts into laughter again, and Tom is charmed. "Oh, god. Was he hot at least?"

Tom smirks. "Yes. And a War hero."

“Well, at least your friends have good taste.”

“I suppose Jake just thought it was hilarious that he’s Gryffindor’s Head of House,” Tom muses.

"Do you not get along with that House?"

Tom pauses. "It's not serious. Not really. Casey was in Gryffindor, you know."

“So you were friends in school as well?” Barclay asks.

“Well, erm, not really,” Tom says. It’s not like he’d ever hated Casey, but... “We weren’t in the same year _or_ in the same House so we didn’t really see much of each other off the Quidditch pitch.”

"And he was your rival."

"Right," Tom says. "I wanted to be Quidditch Captain and Head Boy, so I took things... a little hard on the pitch. But he was funny. We had one class together. And our positions were different enough that we didn't really get into it. Mostly P would knock him off his broom and I'd catch the Snitch while his teammates got distracted."

“So how come you live together now?” Barclay asks.

“We both made the team at the Magpies and l was living with my parents at the time. They’re not exactly... ecstatic over my career choice and it was pretty exhausting. Then Casey mentioned that he was looking for a roommate and... well. Here we are,” Tom explains.

"How'd Charlotte take that?" Tom looks up at him, but Barclay's smirking. "Shackin' up with your former rival?"

“Casey bought her affection with treats and pettings,” Tom sniffs. Charlotte is a traitor.

Barclay laughs, and so does the harlequin above the door of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes as it sweeps open to admit them into the loud, chaotic shop interior.

Barclay’s attention is pulled from Tom immediately, but Tom can’t really blame him. He’s been here so many times before, but a small part of him still turns into a giddy child at the myriad of things whizzing through the air, the noises and smells.

"I want one of everything," Barclay breathes. "I don't know what anything is, but I want it all."

“Well, the love potion chocolate’s over there by the pink and red stuff, if you’ve got anyone you want to embarrass,” Tom grins. On second thought, Barclay would probably not be allowed to use them on Muggles.

Barclay shrugs. His cheekbones go pink as he looks anywhere other than Tom. "I think I'm good there. But everything else!"

“Want to just have a look around then?” Tom suggests. “We can get you something. Not everything, I’m afraid, but.”

He should probably stop buying Barclay gifts, but the thing is he doesn’t _want_ to. Quite the opposite.

He has the Galleons, and until now all he really spent them on were treats for Charlotte, and he doesn't fancy becoming a crazy cat wizard.

Yet.

He's too young and fit for that, time being.

He’s just young and fit and wealthy enough to buy a cute boy things, though, isn’t he?

“A boy could get used to this,” Barclay teases.

Tom shoves him lightly just to get his hands around Barclay's ribs for a moment. Barclay lets him and smiles and then pushes his shoulder against Tom’s, like he wants the contact too.

Tom’s fumbling a bit, with this thing with Barclay. He’s just not sure what Barclay wants from him, really. If it’s just an explanation of everything magic, or if he liked their night together more than your run of the mill one night stand too. And even if he did, Tom can appreciate that Barclay’s entire world just got turned upside down, even if he can’t empathise. It’s a bit of a mess, all this.

Barclay turns, then, giving Tom room to breathe. He reaches out to poke tentatively at a display of Fanged Frisbees, snatching his fingers back when the sharp teeth snap.

"Who's that?" Barclay asks. He points to the framed plaque _In Memoriam Fred Weasley: The Forge of Ideas, Beloved Brother, Can't You Tell Us Apart, Mother?_ that hangs on the wall.

Tom’s heart sinks. The traces of the War are everywhere in Diagon Alley, but this is perhaps the most obvious one they’ve come across yet. There’s no way he’s getting out of this explanation.

“The owner’s twin brother. Before, or I suppose during, the War Hogwarts ... wasn’t exactly a great place. The Weasley twins dropped out just shy of graduating and opened this shop. Fred Weasley died in the final battle.”

"The battle was at the _school_?" Barclay seems to sense that this is a conversation for whispers, for hiding. "Weren't there lots of children about?"

“Yeah, there were,” Tom says somberly, thinking of all the ghosts he grew older than during his own seven years there. “It’s a school but it’s also a castle and there was some stuff there of... strategic value. To both sides.”

"Is that why my parents didn't..." Barclay shakes his head. "But you weren't there yet, right? So I wouldn't have been, either."

“We wouldn’t have been there yet, no, but... for a while it looked like we were losing. I mean, everything sort of hinged on this one kid and the... leader of the bad side was supposedly immortal and the Ministry got overtaken, every family who wasn’t one hundred percent pureblood was scrutinised, witches and wizards who were Muggle-born as well as Muggles were being killed and...”

Tom heaves a deep sigh and breaks off.

“I don’t blame people for putting their kids first.”

Barclay’s looking down at the ground, his jaw working as he’s trying to take it in.

“But it’s been over. I mean, I get why they left, I just don’t understand why they didn’t come back.”

"It'd been over before," Tom says. "Like, erm... those big wars the Muggles had. It was over for a bit in between, but it happened again. Worse. My time was the 'worse.'"

“So people were scared it wasn’t really over this time either, you mean? That it’d get worse again?” Barclay asks. “Was the leader of the... bad side really immortal? Do you have him locked up somewhere forever or something?”

"He's dead," Tom says shortly. "He was sort of immortal, but not really. It's not possible. Or, we think it's not. We're pretty sure he's dead."

“Pretty sure?” Barclay repeats, his face twitching like he was fluctuating between horror and amusement. “Isn’t death sort of a definite thing? How can you be ‘pretty sure’ about it?”

"He had followers. They experiment sometimes with really Dark spells. His body's dead for sure. That's buried somewhere. I don't know if anyone really knows where."

An Aviatomobile goes whirring across the store towards them, its flight loud only because it's been made to sound like it's passing gas in great bursts. Ophiuchus wakes from inside Barclay's pocket and peeps out his skinny pink tongue.

The bubble of misery they’d somehow put themselves inside bursts when Barclay’s face breaks open into a soft smile and he reaches into his pocket to pull Ophiuchus out.

“Hi, there,” he says. “Did you have a pleasant sleep?”

The puffskein just hums and rolls over in his palm. The basket of pygmy puffs in bright candy colors on a table nearby begins to hum, too, heeding his call.

Barclay looks up and over at the noise.

“Oh! Are those...?”

"They are. I don't know how they got them to be those colors."

“Well, magic, probably,” Barclay quips.

Tom widens his eyes and drops his jaw. "Really? D'you think? I don't -- _magic_?"

“Yep,” Barclay says, nodding seriously even while he’s grinning. “It’s quite real, you know. Dragons too, though I’ve not seen one of those.”

Tom reaches up to pet whichever side is currently up on the puffskein, then crooks his elbow into Barclay's free arm. "Tell me more!"

Barclay huffs a laugh but it sounds a little tired.

“Don’t know much about it, really,” he says.

Tom chances a light, brushing kiss on Barclay's cheek. "That's alright. It takes years."

“Education, even?” Barclay teases. Tom grins.

“It does,” he agrees. “You can have my old school books, by the way. If you’re... interested.”

Barclay shrugs. He slips Ophiuchus back into his shirt pocket. "Could I even use them?"

“Books? As long as you can read,” Tom says.

"Do I need... I don't know. A magic wand?"

It's been so long since Tom _didn't_ have a wand, an extension of his arm and his soul, that he's startled.

“Oh. Yes. If you wanted to practice magic, you would need one. Do you want to? I thought you might just want to learn the theory or history or something but... well, you’re of age, there’s no reason you shouldn’t have one... and you can perform magic outside Hogwarts... I suppose I could teach you maybe...”

Tom’s babbling, he knows, but he can’t help it. He’s never thought about how people who don’t go to Hogwarts learn magic. He’s never met any. Are there adult magic classes? Or something like distance learning? A mail order course? How did Hagrid manage it? He should owl him and ask. He and Barclay would get along. Same interest in dragons.

Barclay seems a little startled by Tom’s spew of words.

“I-- I don’t know?”

Barclay shakes his head and looks down at his shoes. "Do I have to decide now? It still just seems a little... daft. That I'd need a magic wand. I mean that _I_ would need one."

“No, no, sure. There’s no rush,” Tom says. “Take all the time you want.”

Barclay kisses the top of Tom's head. A gaggle of children, younger than Hogwarts aged, run past and head straight for the basket of pygmy puffs.

"Can we go back to yours?" he asks. "Has Casey sexiled you?"

“He hasn’t sent a Patronus, so we should be fine to go back,” Tom says, trying not to preen too much at the kiss. “Do you want to leave right away or still look around here a bit?”

"I'm tired," Barclay says, and Tom pretends to know it isn't at least half a lie. "And I want to feed stuff to Ophiuchus and see him eat it."

Tom tilts his head up to look Barclay in the eye and very deliberately raise one eyebrow.

“Alright. We can do that,” he says. “Grab on.”

Barclay's brow lowers, confused, but he grabs tight to Tom's arm with one hand and sticks the other in his pocket to keep a grip on the puffskein.

Tom grabs his wand, focuses and whisks them away, back home.


	5. Tom Mann and the Parental Confrontation

** Tom Mann and the Parental Confrontation **

Tom keeps waiting for Barclay to leave, but he doesn't.

He stays.

Tom wakes in the morning to find Charlotte kneading Barclay's chest and meowing with great insistence, intent on teaching him her language so that he, too, can do her bidding. He's become used to the puffskein's humming from inside Barclay's pocket in the afternoon. Whenever he makes tea, he's careful to notice whether a skinny pink tongue is darting towards the cream in his cup.

He can't get used to Barclay, though, the _Barclay_ -ness of Barclay's constant presence. He smells so good and laughs so quickly and doesn't seem to feel any shame in asking questions about the things that amaze him. His hands are huge and he moves them like he's always sure, even when Tom knows he isn't.

Tom is a bit amazed by Barclay but he doesn’t know how to ask questions the way Barclay does. He’s not sure what would happen if he said “What do your parents do? Do you have siblings? Doesn’t anyone miss you?” and he doesn’t want it to be what makes Barclay leave.

So he answers more than he questions and tries to find new things for Barclay to be fascinated by and ask questions about.

He sets Barclay up with the Floo and coaches him for an hour one day so that Barclay can take himself to the Magical Menagerie for visits with Chris when Tom and Casey go to practice. It wouldn't be fair to introduce him to a whole new world and then bar him from it by keeping him cooped up in the flat.

He also shows him where he keeps his old books from Hogwarts and when Casey and he get back sometimes Barclay will talk excitedly about all the different animals he saw at the menagerie, and sometimes he’ll have a book open on his legs, Ophiuchus humming away on his lap and more questions for Tom to answer.

Even if he’s not getting used to Barclay as such, Tom gets to a point where he can’t imagine him not being around frighteningly fast.

About a week after he turned up, the extra pair of shoes in the doorway and the third mug in the sink are commonplace, and Tom is lying along the side of Barclay's ribs on the sofa, his shoulders tucked under Barclay's arm. On the floor, Charlotte bats Ophiuchus, Ophy, between her paws like a ball of string.

“No, Charlotte, that’s not food,” Tom says, although it’s lacking in authority. He’s lost count how many times he’s reprimanded Charlotte about Ophiuchus. Granted, the puffskein never seems to mind, but he’s just worried one of these days she’ll use claws when she’s batting at him and scratch his eye out or something. He’s relatively certain Barclay wouldn’t be a fan of that.

"Aw, they're playing," Barclay coos. His fingers are gentle and hardly tickle when he spreads them over the soft of Tom's side to give him a little squeeze. Tom makes an involuntary noise not unlike the one Ophiuchus and Charlotte make when petted and turns his face further into Barclay’s body.

He doesn’t know where they are, really. The two of them. Barclay seems to like being close to Tom and Tom gravitates towards him just as much. They end up cuddling basically every day but... that’s sort of it. Neither of them have commented on it and although Tom has wanted to kiss Barclay again - wants to kiss him again everytime he sees his mouth, really - he hasn’t. Neither has Barclay.

There's a scribbling sound and then Charlotte disappears under the armchair, on the hunt for the puffskein who rolled into the abyss of dust underneath.

“Well, that’s going to take a while,” Tom comments dryly, turning to look up at Barclay.

Barclay hums, not unlike his pet. "What shall we do to pass the time without them to entertain us?"

Tom can think of about five things, off the top of his head, but they all burn down to “you” and he voices none of them, lifting an eyebrow instead and smirking.

Barclay waggles his eyebrows back, and his fingers tighten around Tom's side again.

"You still feel that way?" Tom asks. He has to ask. The whole world's changed in the last ten days.

Merlin's pants, it's only been ten days.

“About you?” Barclay asks back, as if the answer should be obvious to Tom. “Is it not obvious I do?”

It’s not. Not to Tom.

“I didn’t want to assume. Everything’s changed for you.”

"Being a wizard didn't make me turn straight." Barclay sounds confused, but starts to laugh. "Why, have you?"

“Turned straight? Unlikely,” Tom says, a grin pulling at his lips. “I just meant... It’s already so complicated. I don’t want you to feel... obligated to me.”

"I don't. I promise," Barclay says. "I feel like I'm obligated to tell everything I'm learning to my brother and sister. And I'm obligated to take care of Ophy. I'm not obligated to do anything for you, 'cause I could have gone home. With the -- the Floo, thing. Like you did."

“Of course, yes. Any time,” Tom says, as if Barclay doesn’t know that. Merlin, he’s not usually quite such a wet blanket.

“Why didn’t you?” Tom asks.

Barclay shuffles about a bit and does a half-shrug-half-smile thing.

“Well, I’d rather be here.”

Tom grins and shuffles up so that their faces are closer. He can see right into Barclay's clear, dark eyes. "I'd rather you be here, too."

“Yeah?” Barclay says, voice going even softer than it usually is with their closeness. “Well, that’s a lucky coincidence.”

Tom's thigh crosses over Barclay's knees, warm together between robes and jeans. Barclay smells like Tom's own soap and the faint traces of feather and fur that come from spending time at the Menagerie, and Tom can feel his heart beating.

Tom can feel his own heart beating too. Racing, really, more like, but it’s excited more than anxious now that Barclay’s said what he said and with how he’s closing his eyes and smiling sweetly when Tom reaches up a hand to run over Barclay’s short hair.

Barclay smiles. His lips are so thin, but they don't feel it -- Tom remembers. Tom knows.

Tom leans in and nudges Barclay’s nose with his own, because Barclay looks like he’s waiting and not giving him what he wants even though he knows Tom wants it too makes Barclay giggle. Tom likes hearing it.

He slides one hand to cup over Tom's bum through the worn soft fabric of his most casual robes, and then their breath is circling the space between their lips and getting shorter and shorter --

And _then_ there’s a loud crack-bang, Barclay yelps, and his face collides rather gracelessly and painfully with Tom’s. Tom jumps up from the couch and whips out his wand, whirling around.

Two older people, dark-haired and with very familiar eyes and noses, raise their hands in surrender and take a step back towards the still-green fireplace. Charlotte rockets out from beneath the armchair, her hair all on end, hissing, claws out. A skinny pink tongue follows her and tickles at her tail.

"Mum?" Barclay sounds like he's holding his bruised nose. "Dad?"

\-- Right. Tom can feel his heart hammering suddenly, like now that he’s lowering his wand and the situation’s not as dire as his panic-stricken mind thought, he’s got the luxury of noticing small details like that.

This is officially the strangest, most awkward meet-the-parents situation he’s ever been in and they’ve not even said anything yet.

"Barclay?" says the woman -- Barclay's mum. "Are you alright? What's happened to your face?"

"I bashed it into Tom's face when you scared me." Barclay sounds droll, but not too hurt or upset.

Tom is really not sure what he’s supposed to be doing. On the one hand Barclay is still holding his nose and Tom sort of suspects it might be bleeding. On the other hand -- is he supposed to introduce himself? Both of Barclay’s parents are only staring at him and doing a fine job of ignoring Tom so far.

Barclay's mum moves right around Tom and goes to hover in front of Barclay, tutting as she touches the back of his hand. "Let me see, bubby, move your hands -- "

"Mum!"

"Er," says Tom.

"Donna," says Barclay's dad. "Maybe now's..."

“Hush,” Barclay’s mum says and all three of them hush. Barclay drops his hands and his mum tuts again at the blood smeared over his nose and lips.

Tom watches. Tom watches as she pulls a wand from her purse like it's always been there, waiting, in case she needed it. Watches as she thinks like it's something she never wanted to remember, and then points the wand to Barclay's nose.

"Episkey."

Tom watches as the blood recedes and the swelling fades and there's Barclay's face again, just as they'd left it.

Barclay’s jaw twitches and his face goes through a series of minute changes that Tom can’t categorise. It settles in something cool and detached that Tom’s not seen on him yet. It’s a bit unsettling to watch happen.

“Thanks,” Barclay says and shuffles to the side - away from his mum and towards Tom. Not enough to be a glaring declaration of... _something_ but enough that his mother’s face falls a little and her eyes flit over to acknowledge Tom.

She pockets the wand again like she's ashamed, and Tom hurts. He hurts for Barclay, but for his parents, too, for everything they've given up.

So he steps forward, smiles and holds his hand out to her.

“Hi. Mrs. Beales? I’m Tom. Mann.”

Her throat works, and she can't stick out her hand to shake his back.

He doesn't blame her. She ran away from her whole life because of a man called Tom, after all.

But it still -- Tom can't quite drop his hand, either, like he's got a Partial-Body Bind sticking it into place, hovering in the air, waiting.

Finally Mr. Beales comes up and takes his wife's place. His hand is big and warm and callused like Barclay's when he shakes Tom's, and he has a smile that reminds Tom of the Hufflepuff table at breakfast.

“Hello, lad,” Mr. Beales says. “I’m Edward. And this is my wife, Donna.”

She seems to shake her hesitation then, at least enough to give him a thin smile he pretends to buy and shake his hand once, just a quick up-down.

"Hi," Tom says. "Er... sorry that Barclay didn't get in touch. I don't have a telephone."

"Of course you don't," says Mr. Beales, and he sounds nonplussed enough.

Tom is also, he wants to point out but doesn’t, not responsible for Barclay’s actions. Under his mother’s gaze he just can’t help feeling like he kidnapped Barclay, or lured him here and kept him under false pretenses. And while Barclay sought him out on his own volition and has made no move to leave, it is only because of Tom’s carelessness that any of this happened.

“And I suppose my owl didn’t find you,” Mrs. Beales says, her tone sharper than her husband’s.

Tom's brow furrows and his head swivels to look at Barclay on the sofa.

Barclay sticks out his chin. "I don't know how to send Owl Post, do I?"

Tom’s eyes flit back and forth between Barclay and his mother. Just yesterday Barclay asked Tom to explain how to send letters by owl, so he could ask Chris questions without popping in at the menagerie.

He keeps mum.

Mrs. Beales' face pinches, then softens. She sits down on the sofa beside Barclay and reaches out as though to rest her hand on his knee. "Sweetheart... it was for you. Everything we did -- "

“I get it,” Barclay interrupts. He takes his mother’s hand, squeezes it, but drops it again as though he’s not sure whether he wants the physical connection just yet.

“But you wouldn’t have ever told us, would you? If I hadn’t-- if nothing had happened,” Barclay says, looking from his mother up to his father.

Mr. Beales isn't looking at Barclay, though. He's looking around Tom-and-Casey's living room, taking everything in. Something behind his eyes is hungry and sad, like he's been on a diet for twenty years and now he has the chance, the choice, to eat a whole cake.

Tom wonders if too much at once will make him sick, and then shoves the thought aside. He’s never met anyone who ran from the war as thoroughly as the Bealeses. He doesn’t know if there’s anything he can do for them, if he should even attempt. If it weren’t for Barclay, he’d awkwardly shuffle out of the room and leave them to gather their bearings before a conversation, but Barclay keeps surreptitiously glancing at him or twitching his hand toward Tom and Tom knows when someone’s asking for support without words. That’s one thing he thinks Slytherins know better than anyone else.

“We thought about it,” Mrs. Beales says. Tom has been so caught up watching Mr. Beales and Barclay in turn he forgot there’s still a question waiting to be answered. “So many times, love. We just ... weren’t sure.”

"What weren't you sure about?" Barclay bites. "When I broke my arm, Mum wasn't sure whether to fix it? Just like now? Like nothing? When Con needed help with his homework and you couldn't -- it's because you'd never learnt it, right? So why'd you make us? And Taylor... you're letting her go, right? To the wizard school?"

“Barclay, it’s not... it’s not that easy,” Mrs. Beales says, cajoles really, like she can sense the storm brewing behind Barclay’s words. In all the time that Barclay has been here he has almost exclusively expressed wonder and curiosity and delight about this new turn of events in his life. And even though Tom knew, somehow, that that couldn’t be it, it’s unsettling to see it now in his interaction with his parents. To hear it in the restraint in his voice.

“Conor doesn’t want to,” Mr. Beales says. “You know how he is with school... he’s not interested.”

"What's he gonna do?" Barclay asks. "Just apprentice at the garage forever?"

"No," Mr. Beales says. "Eventually, he won't be an apprentice. You know that."

"Taylor... she isn't sure," Mrs. Beales says. "It's a big change."

"Hogwarts is great," Tom says quietly. "I can... it's been a while since you've been there, so if you want her to talk to someone who was there... well. I was Head Boy."

Mrs. Beales looks at him sharply, but Barclay picks up on it immediately.

“Exactly! It’s a big _chance_ as well,” Barclay insists. “Are you talking to her about it?”

“She’d have a lot to catch up on,” Mrs. Beales says.

“But she could catch up. She’s always been clever,” Barclay says. “I’m sure she’d be great at-- at charms and potions and --- runes as well.”

"She'd miss football," says Mrs. Beales.

"She could play Quidditch," argues Barclay. "Like Tom!"

“You played at Hogwarts?” Mr. Beales cuts in, a childish delight in his voice that halts the conversation and turns all focus to him and then Tom.

“Um, yes. Sir,” Tom says, forcing his face to stay relaxes and his eyes to stay on Mr. Beales even when he can feels both Mrs. Beales’ and Barclay’s stare on him as well. “Captain for a while. I play for the Magpies now.”

"The Montrose Magpies?" Mr. Beales scratches his chin. "They were fourth in the league last time I paid attention. How are the Cannons doing these days?"

“They’re, um, not last place. Currently,” Tom says.

Mr. Beales snorts. "They're the disappointment of Devon. I guess some things never change."

Looking at Mrs. Beales, Tom can tell that might have been the worst thing to say. Some things do change, though. Have changed.

“Not for a lack of trying,” he says, diplomatically, hoping that Mr. and Mrs. Beales can appreciate he means the whole of the wizarding world and not just the Cannons. Sure, he’s never known the world before The War, but they’ve never known it after and he has the advantage of history books and teachers that were right at the front lines.

There's a beat of silence as Barclay feels over the bridge of his healed nose, and then Charlotte comes rocketing out from beneath the armchair, Ophiuchus hanging from her mouth like a kitten.

“Charlotte,” Tom says, more exasperated than chastising and mostly from habit rather than actual worry for Ophiuchus. She doesn’t seem to be hurting him, after all. Actually, it seems like she’s adopted him over the course of the last week.

Charlotte sets her two front paws up on the sofa and drops Ophiuchus on it before jumping up after him, butting her head against Barclay’s arm.

"Oh, Ophy," Barclay mutters, and picks up the slightly damp puffskein. It hums like nothing's happened, but Barclay still combs his fingers through its fuzz.

"Is that a puffskein?" Mrs. Beales asks. When Barclay nods, she smiles like she can't help it. "I had one as a little girl. She was a sort of whitish-gray color."

“What was her name?” Barclay asks, the question hanging in the air like an olive branch.

“Diana,” Mrs. Beales says.

Barclay pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. "I was really afraid you were gonna say 'Barclay.'"

Mrs. Beales smiles again, a little brighter this time. Like over time she’s gotten used to Barclay’s unique sense of humour and missed it the past week.

“She died before I even had you,” Mrs. Beales says.

Barclay clutches Ophiuchus a little tighter and the humming becomes slightly frantic until Barclay loosens his grip.

Charlotte takes the opportunity to weasel her way onto Barclay's lap and bop her nose underneath his chin, begging kisses.

"Is that your cat?" Mrs. Beales asks Barclay.

"No, but Ophy is mine." Barclay pets Charlotte's long back and she settles. "Charlotte's Tom's."

“‘Ophy’?” Mrs. Beales asks and Tom wishes the ground would open up beneath him so violently and so instantly he’s worried it will for a moment.

“His full name’s Ophiuchus,” Barclay says.

The elder Bealeses shoot each other a look.

"That's a very old name," Mr. Beales says. "It's... well, it's a very old Wizarding family name, I mean."

"It's Tom's middle name," Barclay says, and he smirks at Tom.

Tom rolls his eyes back at Barclay with a smile but straightens his spine and squares his shoulder when he lifts his gaze to Barclay’s parents.

“Is it? Hm,” Mr. Beales says.

“The Mann family, you said?” Mrs. Beales asks.

“Yes,” Tom says.

Mr. Beales' brow furrows. "Are you related to Vulpecula?"

Barclay bursts out laughing, but stops when Tom shoots him a scowl.

“Sorry,” Barclay mouths.

“My father’s sister,” Tom says to Barclay’s father.

"She was in our year," Mr. Beales explains. "Donna, wasn't she your Potions partner?"

Mrs. Beales makes a vague humming sound before she replies.

“Yes,” she says. “We didn’t talk much outside class.”

"I haven't talked to her that much either," Tom offers, quietly. "She wasn't one of... _his_ , or anything. We just aren't close."

“Most old families aren’t, are they,” Mr. Beales says kindly, but Tom frowns. It’s just that Aunt Vulpecula never had the patience to sit around with her brother’s children, from what he gathered. She was always off doing one thing or another.

“We see more of my mother’s side of the family,” Tom says. His mother’s brother’s oldest child is only a bit younger than he is himself. He imagines it was something for them to talk about that his father and Vulpecula lacked.

"What was her name?" Mrs. Beales asks, and she finally sounds curious. "I wonder if we knew her, too. What House was she?"

"Er," Tom says, "Slytherin. We've all been Slytherin, except some great-great-uncle down the line who was a Gryffindor and then got blown up doing some kind of trick spell when he was twenty. Bloody Gryffindors." He pauses. "Er... no offense?"

"None taken," Mr. Beales says cheerfully. "I was Hufflepuff, myself. Donna was Ravenclaw, of course. Clever bird."

Mr. Beales Tom could have guessed but if not for Mrs. Beales’ open hesitation towards Tom he could have easily thought her a former Slytherin as well.

“Oh,” he says, unsure how to react. Is he supposed to offer congratulations?

“My mother’s name is Hemera. My dad was three years ahead of her. Fornax,” Tom offers. Maybe they did know them. His mum and dad have never told him about friends or even just acquaintances that vanished during The War, but then they avoid talking about it, the way most people do.

"Hemera... Hemera... Greengrass, wasn't she?" Mrs. Beales sounds thoughtful. "I seem to remember that she was very good at Charms."

Tom nods, proud. She has published essays on some especially tricky charms.

“She is. When we were kids she used to--” he starts but then breaks off, unsure if his mother entertaining them with her spellwork when they were younger is appropriate for this conversation.

"I used to make little bonfire dragons for Barclay," Mr. Beales says, and moves over to the mantel to look at the photographs that Tom and Casey keep in frames over the top. "You probably don't remember, Barcs. You were very small. That was in the house you're in now."

Barclay’s hand stills on Ophiuchus and his mouth drops open a little.

“That actually happened?!”

Mr. Beales nods, distracted by the Magpies team photo. "Oh, yes." He lifts the frame down and examines the portrait, watching as Parisa and Betsy ruffle each other's hair and Lauren ducks out of Casey's headlock and James reaches over Tom to punch --

"Is that a Sims boy?"

Tom’s blood runs cold. Tom has the first name, but Jake has the family name that makes people halt.

“That’s Jake,” he says. “We went to Hogwarts together.”

"Are you friends with him?" Mrs. Beales does lay her hand on Barclay's knee this time, squeezing like she can keep him from being Apparated or Imperiused just by that little touch. "Has he -- you spend time with his family?"

“I’ve met them, yes,” Tom says. “We shared a dorm at Hogwarts and he’s one of my best mates. We played for the same team at school and we play for the same team now.”

Barclay looks between Tom and his mother, trying to judge the situation.

“I’ve met him,” he says. “He was nice.”

Jake was _not_ nice. Not to Barclay. And since he usually refers to Jake as ‘the one who hates me’, he knows it as well.

"You've met him?" Mrs. Beales asks, and she touches Barclay's cheeks until he turns his head to look into her eyes. "Did he feed you anything? Have you felt odd at all since you were around him?"

Tom bites down on his tongue and balls his fist at his side.

“Mum!” Barclay says, aghast. “He hasn’t bloody _poisoned_ me!”

"Not poisoned, just -- influenced. Brainwashed. Is that why you haven't come home? Barclay, just because you're a wizard doesn't mean Muggles are -- "

"Mum, I don't think Muggles are anything! I mean, anything bad! I'm not _evil_ just because I'm a wizard," Barclay jerks out of her touch. "And Jake's not evil just because of his last name. I can't believe you."

“Well, what am I supposed to think when you run away from us, ignore my attempts to talk to you and hang out with children of Death Eaters for a week!” his mother explodes.

Charlotte lifts her head from where she has been dozing in Barclay’s lap and then jumps down onto the ground, trotting out of the room with her tail held high as if she can’t believe these humans won’t let her nap in peace. Barclay takes the chance to cradle Ophiuchus close and get up from the sofa, standing close to Tom.

“I don’t know what _Death Eaters_ are--” Barclay starts.

“Oh, they’ve not told you, have they?” Mrs. Beales interrupts.

“-- but I don’t think anyone should be judged by their parents’ actions,” Barclay continues, as if she didn’t say anything at all.

"They _murdered children_ , Barclay," Mrs. Beales says sharply. "For _fun_."

Barclay falters and looks to his father and then Tom. Tom nods minutely.

“Jake’s...?” Barclay asks softly. Tom grimaces.

“His dad was... that. He’s been locked up in Azkaban - wizard prison - since before I’ve known Jake.”

"How old was Mr. Weasley's son?" Barclay asks Tom, not quite meeting his eyes. "The one with the joke shop."

“When he died?” Tom asks.

Barclay nods.

“Twenty.”

"That's not... it's not a child, anyway," Barclay says. "When you said the battle was in the school -- "

"He wasn't at school anymore," Tom says shortly. "The first-years were eleven."

Barclay blanches.

“They sought children out away from battles,” Mrs. Beales says, less sharp this time but trying to make Barclay understand why they left. “Muggle-born wizard children and regular Muggle children. To kill. Just because they could.”

"But Jake never did," Tom says. "He was barely even born then. None of us were. And we're not like that anymore, Slytherin House, I mean. Jake hates what his father did."

“Yes, that’s exactly what the Malfoys said as well right after the Potters died,” Mrs. Beales says.

“But we’re not like that,” Tom repeats. “The war was over before most of us showed our first signs of magic. The world we grew up in isn’t the world you left.”

Tom pauses. "Draco Malfoy is my uncle. My mother's sister is married to him. Astoria Greengrass. He's changed, too. Everyone's changed. Hogwarts has changed."

For a moment Mrs. Beales seems taken aback, unsure how to proceed, and Ophiuchus’ humming is the only sound in the room. Then the fire in the fireplace behind Mr. Beales rears to bright green life and Casey climbs out, grinning and covering his eyes.

“Is it safe?” he calls, cheeky as ever.

Tom flushes and doesn't check to see if Barclay does too.

When no one answers, Casey uncovers his eyes and peeks through the gap of his fingers. "Oh! Sorry, I didn't realize we had company. I just assumed you were naked."

“Casey,” Tom says, not sure whether he wants the ground to swallow himself or Casey. “These are Mr. and Mrs. Beales. Barclay’s _parents_.”

“Oh,” Casey says. “Well, then I’m sure they know all about the birds and the bees.”

He winks at Mrs. Beales.

Tom definitely wants the ground to swallow Casey.

Casey lifts Mrs. Beales' hand and kisses it. "Casey Johnson, ma'am. I'm Tom's roommate. Play Keeper for the Montrose Magpies. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Er," says Mr. Beales.

“Our son went missing a week ago,” Mrs. Beales says, clearly not buying into Casey’s charm. Probably she thinks he’s another one of Tom’s pureblood Slytherin friends.

“What a coincidence! We found him a week ago,” Casey says, still relaxed and smiling. “Or, well, he found us. Or found Tom, rather.”

"See, Mum?" Barclay says. "I'm _fine_. They're _nice_."

“Well, no one seems to have offered any tea yet,” Casey says, looking at the couch table. “That’s not very nice, is it. Would anyone like some tea?”

Mrs. Beales just blinks, but Mr. Beales nods. "Tea cures all, doesn't it?"

"I'll put the kettle on," says Casey.

Mrs. Beales startles. "The kettle?"

"Tastes better the Muggle way," Casey says over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

Tom would protest - hot water is hot water - but he doesn’t think now’s exactly the right time for their usual Muggle-Magic banter.

“Casey’s parents are Muggles,” Barclay says, pointedly.

Mrs. Beales looks to Tom. "He's your roommate?"

“Yeah. He mentioned looking for a roommate around the same time I wanted to leave my parents’ house,” Tom says.

"And you get along?"

"We're best friends," Tom says plainly. "I'd trust Casey with my life. I have, probably, out on the pitch."

“You said people don’t die in Quidditch,” Barclay says, eyes narrowed at Tom.

“Well, no, because they have people looking out for them. If, say, someone knocked Casey off his broom I’d catch him and he’d catch me,” Tom says.

Barclay half-smirks. "You mean Parisa."

"Sometimes," Tom admits, and winks.

Barclay groans suddenly but smiles at Tom.

“Taylor would love her.”

"They could meet," Tom offers. "I could get you all tickets to a match, if you like. You'd have to take a Portkey, since we've already handed the Cannons their bums this season, but I'd love to have you come out."

“Really?” Barclay asks, excitement bright in his eyes.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mrs. Beales says.

“We’ll have to see if we can make the time,” Mr. Beales says, laying a gentle hand on his wife’s arm.

“Well, _I’m_ going,” Barclay says.

There's a whistling from the kitchen, and then a hooting from Lux. Casey's clucking gentling of the owl follows, and then Casey returns, carrying a tray with five cups and a teapot.

“Oh, lovely,” Mr. Beales says.

“Best thing about the old common room. There was always a kettle and some tea,” Casey says, pouring tea for all of them.

“In the dungeons?” Mrs. Beales asks, completely bewildered.

Casey looks up, expression equally as bewildered and maybe a little insulted. Tom would roll his eyes if he weren’t trying hard not to grin.

“Gryffindor tower,” Casey says, as if he’s still prancing around in his uniform and anyone should be able to tell.

Mr. Beales looks to Tom again. "You really get along?"

"Oh, Tom's a right prat," Casey interrupts, pouring the tea. "But he's alright unless you get him talking about his Muggle Studies NEWT or how he was Head Boy or how he was Quidditch Captain or how fit he thinks Barclay is."

The Bealeses are clearly taken aback at Casey’s brazen tone and frankly if Tom didn’t know Casey so well he’d be wondering of Casey never noticed the tension he stepped into when he came out of the Floo or if he’s doing it on purpose. But Tom does know him, and when Casey straightens and turns around to hand Tom a cup of tea, his back to the Bealeses, he’s got one eyebrow raised. Tom lets his mouth twitch into a tiny grimace before Casey turns back to smile at their guests.

"So whereabouts do you live now? Are you still in Devon like Barcs?"

Mrs. Beales hesitates just a moment too long before answering to go unnoticed.

“Yes. Just had to leave the old house and move into a completely Muggle neighbourhood.”

“Near Exeter,” Barclay adds and sits back down next to his mother. His father sits to her other side.

"That's right," Casey says. He sips his tea and flops into the armchair the animals so recently vacated. "My family are in London, but my brother drives out to meet me after most of our Quidditch matches. It strikes a good balance."

Bless Casey, honestly, and his little Gryffindor heart.

Tom doesn’t really think squeezing in next to Barclay will win him any points with his mother and perches on the wide armrest of armchair Casey just sat in.

“Does he?” Mr. Beales asks, sounding impressed. “By car? Some of your matches must be quite far.”

"If we're up north playing Ballycastle, he won't make it," Casey admits. "But we met Barcs after defeating the Cannons quite soundly. Not that that's much of an accomplishment."

“By a wide margin then?” Mr. Beales asks.

“Five-hundred nil,” Casey says, like he’d not been _ecstatic_ about it when they left the pitch.

Mr. Beales groans and drops his head into his hands. "Oh, they've only got worse. I knew they needed me wearing my lucky socks to have a half a chance."

"Oh, dear, please don't bring back the lucky socks," Mrs. Beales mutters. "I've only just got most of the stink out."

Barclay looks over at his dad in bewilderment.

“Are you superstitious?” he asks, like he’s never heard his father say anything of the like before.

Casey laughs from over where he’s still lounging in the arm chair.

“Wizards are the most superstitious people you’ll meet,” he says.

"It's all about what you put out into the universe," Mr. Beales says. He comes closer to his son for the first time since they arrived and rests a tentative hand on his shoulder. "That's really all magic is. It focuses those intentions."

“With spells and a wand,” Barclay says, still not entirely ready to forgive his parents, it seems. But he doesn’t shake his father’s hand off the way he had his mother’s earlier.

"Yes," his father agrees. "With spells that are hard to learn and harder to control and with a wand."

"Which Mum still has," Barclay points out. He looks at his mother. "You've kept a magic wand in your purse all these years?"

“We were on the run from political extremists. Why would I give up the only way I know how to keep my children safe?” she says, shoulders straight. “I am a bit rusty though. It’s been almost twenty years.”

"You did a great job on Barclay's nose," Tom says. "It looks much better."

"Hey!" Barclay exclaims, but his eyes are soft when he looks at Tom.

“Than when you’d bashed it into my face and it was all swollen, I meant,” Tom clarifies and then adds softly, “Your nose is fine.”

Casey groans.

“Oh, please don’t start.”

Mrs. Beales looks between Barclay and Tom with an unreadable expression. Her hands are still tight on her son's knee, like she can protect him from the world just by the power in her palms. "Why are you so willing to let him stay? Did you know he was coming?"

“No,” Tom answers. “Honestly I thought the Ministry had him Obliviated.”

“Tom was in a right tizzy,” Casey teases. “Thought they were going to send him to Azkaban for breaking the Statute of Secrecy.”

"But I'm glad to have him stay," Tom adds quickly. "As long as he likes, or... whatever. He's good company, and I think Charlotte would be lonely without Ophiuchus at this point."

“Right. _Charlotte_ ,” Casey mumbles under his breath, quiet enough and hidden behind his cup of tea so no one but Tom takes notice.

“Well,” Mrs. Beales says, hesitating for a moment before going on, “Thank you.”

"He's safe here," Tom says softly. He tries to meet her eyes. "We're not -- the people our parents were, that was a different world. It's not that world anymore, and we're not those people."

The Bealeses don’t say anything for a long moment, and Tom bites his tongue and waits out the silence. When Mrs. Beales does speak again, it’s to Barclay.

“Are you not coming back home, sweetheart?”

Tom looks over at Barclay, too, his heart doing a little flip-flop. That's a big question -- a long time.

"I don't know," Barclay says finally. "Not today, I don't think."

"You have to come back sometime. You at least need to quit the garage," Mr. Beales says. "I'm not doing your paperwork for you."

“I’m not quitting,” Barclay says. “I already said I’ll be back to work on Monday. I’ll make up for the past week even -- I’m sorry about that, I wasn’t-- thinking.”

Mr. Beales shrugs it off.

“I’m almost done with the apprenticeship, I’m not throwing it now,” Barclay adds. “But I’ve already started fixing up the old house. I was planning on moving out before any of this happened. I’m just... making a pit stop.”

Mrs. Beales opens her mouth twice before she manages to ask, "Did you get a wand yet?"

Barclay shakes his head.

“No,” he says and then looks up at Tom. “I do think I want one though.”

Tom grins at him. "We'll figure it out. I've been meaning to scout Quidditch at Hogwarts anyway, so we can ask McGonagall then."

“The Head of Gryffindor house?” Mr. Beales asks, puzzled.

“She’s Headmistress now. Has been since Dumbledore died in ‘97. Or, well, at least since Hogwarts reopened after The War,” Tom explains.

Mrs. Beales' face shutters, pales. "Dumbledore is dead?"

Tom nods. "A long time."

"What... what happened to Harry Potter?"

“He died too, but it didn’t stick,” Casey grins. All Gryffindors are far too infatuated with Harry Potter. “He’s with the Ministry now; Law Enforcement. Hermione Granger is too.”

"I remember reading something about her," Mrs. Beales says. "Wasn't she dating him?"

"No! Merlin's pants," Casey says. "I think the only person who ever believed that was Rita Skeeter."

“Can you imagine?” Tom turns to Casey to ask. “Remember when they came in and gave that talk about the DADA reforms?”

Casey laughs.

“She looked ready to hex him into next century when he said that thing about the Cornish Pixies.”

"Bollocks!" Casey jumps up, tea slopping out of his mug. "Pixies! Fuck, I was supposed to go help Jake get them out of Syd's room! Don't tell him I forgot!"

With a _pop!_ , Casey is gone again.

Casey’s cup falls down onto the armchair and soaks it in tea just as the chair starts tipping sideways with the lack of Casey’s weight but Tom’s still on the arm rest. Tom flails a bit but manages to catch himself and slip off the chair before anything worse can happen. He picks up the cup and waves his wand at the chair, drying up the tea.

When he looks up both elder Bealeses have a disbelieving look on their face.

“Jake... Sims?” Mr. Beales asks.

Tom shrugs as though it’s not a big deal.

“Yeah. We’re all really good mates. Plus, Jake’s sister has a crush on Casey, so that’s always hilarious to watch.”

Mrs. Beales turns to Barclay with sharp eyes. "Have you been there? To the Sims' manor?"

Barclay’s face goes grim again.

“No, mum,” he says. “But if Jake invites me ‘round, I _will_ go.”

Mrs. Beales looks discomfited again, but all Tom can do is offer, "It's really not that impressive anymore. Mostly it's full of pixies."

Unsurprisingly it doesn’t do much to reassure Mrs. Beales.

“Mum,” Barclay tries, “Jake’s not as bad as all that. You’ve never even met him. Don’t you think you’re being a bit unfair?”

Tom is more amazed at Barclay's loyalty: he's only met Jake a few times now, and Jake has never been particularly kind or sweet with him. Mostly he just strips off his robes to show off his tattoos.

Hufflepuff, Tom thinks. Hufflepuff for sure. Like his father.

Mr. Beales smiles like he’s having the same thought and puts a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“Donna, you have to admit we’ve not exactly kept in touch with things when we left. It’s been almost two decades. Things can change.”

“That’s what we thought last time,” Mrs. Beales insists. “And then Lucille...”

She breaks off, turning to stare into the room and away from them.

Tom’s attention snaps to Barclay when he stiffens.

“Aunt Lucille didn’t die in a car crash, did she?” he asks.

"No," Mrs. Beales says softly. "Death Eaters killed her. Her daughter was in some group that Harry Potter put together at the school with Dumbledore, some... resistance group against the Ministry."

“Kids were resisting at school?” Barclay asks, turning back to Tom.

Tom resists the urge to nervously shift his weight and nods instead.

“At first none of the adults - at least at the Ministry - believed Harry Potter when he said that Vol-- that evil guy was back. Everyone was so sure he was dead and Potter was only a kid. But, well, he was right and the kids who knew him from school were more inclined to believe him so when he started a sort of resistance-group-slash-underground-combat-training some of them joined,” Tom explains.

"And that's who won the battle?"

"Sort of," Tom says. "Eventually the adults believed him, and some of them helped. McGonagall -- the headmistress -- she believed him. That's part of why she's in charge now, probably."

“How can a bunch of kids be so important to a war? I mean, they don’t have military training or anything, right?” Barclay asks.

“Magic. There was an important piece of magic that was keeping the evil guy alive and because it’d gone a bit wrong the first time he tried to kill Harry Potter he turned out to be the only one able to undo it, sort of,” Tom says, raking a hand through his hair. “And it’s like your dad said - magic focusses intention. If you have enough of that you don’t need much training.”

Barclay turns to look at his parents again. "Is that why Taylor's hair always grew back after Con and I cut it?"

Mrs. Beales huffs a short laugh at that and for the first time Tom can clearly see Barclay in the lines of her face.

“She really hated it when you did that.”

"Well, she kept letting me!" Barclay tosses his hands up in innocence. A long pink tongue skipples out of his pocket to wind around his index finger like a ring. Barclay doesn’t even startle at it anymore.

“My toys used to reappear in my room whenever my siblings took them,” Tom offers.

Mrs. Beales smiles at Tom. "You should have seen how difficult it was to get rid of Barclay's dummies. I'd try to take one out of his mouth and it would stick like he'd jinxed it there. Or I'd hide one and five more would appear, a rubber-nipple hydra."

"Mum!" Barclay goes nearly purple, and Tom laughs until his eyes scrunch. It makes for a delightful picture - baby Barclay lording over a veritable hoard of dummies.

"That's some very focused magic," Tom snorts, and he pokes Barclay in the side with his toes.

Barclay rolls his eyes with a good-natured smile, even if the blush hasn’t fully left his face.

“I was very sure of my intentions, I suppose,” he says.

He catches Tom's ankle before it can retract, and his thumb circles the knob of bone in a reassuring massage. Tom isn't sure who it's meant to reassure, Barclay or him, but it feels good either way to know that Barclay still wants to touch him. And that he's comfortable enough to do it in front of his parents, regardless what they might think of a Slytherin named Tom.

“It’s always good to know what you want,” Tom agrees, thinking of the moment just before Barclay’s parents had surprised them. Barclay’s eyes darken and flit down to Tom’s lips like he is too.

"What I want," interrupts Mr. Beales, "Is for Barclay to come home tomorrow to complete his last work at the garage and talk to Connor and Taylor. I'm sure they have questions that we just can't answer anymore."

Barclay turns his head around to his dad like he’s been caught doing something naughty. Tom should definitely not follow that particular line of thought.

“Yeah, of course, dad,” Barclay says and then turns to his mum. “And I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

"It's just not that difficult to send Owl Post," Mrs. Beales says dryly. "You write some post, and put it in an owl's mouth."

“Well, now I know,” Barclay quips. “I’ll be sure to reply next time.”

His mother leans in and kisses his cheek, a lingering, relieved kiss of apology and gratefulness and insistence that every choice she's made, she made for him.

Barclay softens the rest of the way then, turns his body into hers and wraps his arms around her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, mum, alright?”

She nods and smudges her lipstick off his cheek. "I'll make a roast."

“Can Tom and Casey come?” Barclay asks. “I think they can help with the explaining.”

Mrs. Beales looks nervous, but she meets Tom's eyes when she nods. "Yes. But anything more harmful than a Jelly-Leg Jinx happens under my roof, and I turn you over to the Dementors."

“I can do a patronus,” Tom says. “And, um, there aren’t really any... anymore. Well, at least not working for the ministry, so you’d have to go looking for one and I’m not sure why anyone would do that.”

Mrs. Beales' mouth relaxes. "Hearing that, I think you've chased off the one that's followed me for the last twenty years."

Tom smiles at her. He’s never come face to face with a dementor, but he’s heard the stories and read the books and done the homework.

"I'm glad," he says. "Go home and eat some chocolate, just to be sure."

“Is that what they’re teaching you up at that school these days?” she asks, half joking, half serious.

“More information means less misinformation. Less misinformation means less fear. And less fear hopefully less hatred,” Tom says.

"What do you like with your roast dinner, dear?"

Tom is taken aback enough by the sudden endearment at the end of her question that for a second or two he struggles to remember what a usual roast dinner looks like back home.

“Um, pumpkin,” he finally says. “Cranberry sauce.”

Mrs. Beales nods again. "I can find that. You, er. If you'd like to bring pumpkin juice... I wouldn't say no."

Tom grins.

“Sure. Butterbeer too, if you want. Or... anything.”

"Fizzing Whizbees?" asks Mr. Beales, a childish glint in his eye. "I've not had one for ages and ages. I wonder if they're strong enough to levitate me five stone later."

“I’m sure the Weasleys have something for that,” Tom promises.

Mr. Beales rubs his hands together as he stands. "Brilliant. Well, I suppose we'll be out of your way now that we know Barcs is alive."

A brief shadow passes over Mrs. Beales’ face and Barclay’s shoulders slump. Maybe in that moment Tom appreciates for the first time that that had been a genuine concern of theirs and feels guilt settle in his stomach.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve had Barclay Owl you--” he tries.

“Oh, nonsense. It’s not your fault, lad,” Mr. Beales says. Even Mrs. Beales looks at him like she’s not worried about leaving Barclay with him anymore.

"I was angry," Barclay says in lieu of apology. "I'm still a bit angry, to be honest. But I'm sorry to've worried you, that was stupid."

His mother scoops him into a hug again.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, we understand. Just don’t ever do it again.”

"Don't lie to me about being a mythical creature ever again," Barclay says into her neck. "We're not also vampires, are we? Sparkling kind or normal kind?"

Tom doesn't even want to know what a sparkling vampire is. Muggles are mad.

Mr. Beales laughs, a deep, full sound.

“No. Just human. Although vampires do exist,” he says. “And they don’t sparkle.”

Barclay hugs his mum tighter. "I didn't need to know that part!"

“It’s part of growing up, son,” his father says. “The world gets bigger and scarier.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes Tom want to grin.

"Do you mind if we use your Floo?" Mr. Beales asks Tom. "I don't fancy getting Splinched from lack of practice."

“No, no, of course. Go right ahead. Powder’s on the mantle,” Tom says, stretching out a hand to indicate the fireplace uselessly. He’s still tripping over himself to impress a bit. He doubts it’ll fade any time soon.

Barclay gives his mother a last squeeze and then stands beside Tom to watch his parents disappear into the green fire. Once they're gone, Charlotte streaks back into the room and leaps onto Tom's shoulder, her little claws digging into his shirt. Tom flinches a bit, but reaches up to scritch her under her chin and behind her ears when she bends her head. Barclay watches with a sort of wry amusement spelled out over his face.

“Proper witchy,” he says

"'Scuse you," Tom snorts. "She is a queen."

“Of course,” Barclay relents, grin growing. “Forgive me, your Majesty.”

Charlotte is inclined to forgive anyone with hands like Barclay’s petting her whenever she comes asking for it. Tom can relate a bit.

"So," he says, "Giving me the full Muggle World tour tomorrow, ay?"

"Er, not the full world," Barclay says. "Mostly like, our village outside Exeter."

“And cars?” Tom asks, trying and probably failing to contain his excitement at the thought.

Barclay chuckles and kisses Tom's cheek. "And cars." He gets a headbutt from Charlotte for his effort.

The spot on his skin where Barclay’s lips had touched feel heated and tingly, like he sealed the touch with magic so Tom would never forget it. He swallows heavily, staring at Barclay’s lips and then his eyes, cars suddenly not as exciting as what he’s got right in front of him.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks.

Barclay wraps his arms around Tom's waist and pulls him in close so that all Tom can do is pop up onto his tiptoes and hang on, Charlotte jumping off his back with an indignant yowl to stalk away. Even Ophiuchus squeaks where he's caught between the press of both boys' chests.

Tom reaches up to pull him from Barclay’s chest pocket and drops him on the sofa. He doesn’t want to have to be mindful of any critters when Barclay’s looking at him like that.

Barclay grins, and then his mouth softens again. "You can definitely kiss me now."

Tom runs his fingers over Barclay’s short hair, takes in the pink of his lips and the glaze in his eyes for a second or two longer and then shuts his own eyes and leans in. He finds Barclay’s lips easily, and his hands cup the back of his skull, holding Barclay like he’s a goblet and Tom means to drink from him.

If anything, this kiss is even more intoxicating than the first had been, and Tom knows there's no magic -- muggle booze or his own brand -- in it now.

He feels his legs strain like there’s any higher for him to go and he leans forward, resting more of his weight against Barclay’s chest. Barclay’s lips against his are soft and sure, no hesitation at all in the way he kisses Tom.

His hands creep down until they're sliding over Tom's bum, clutching it, cupping over it, fingers just barely suggestive. Tom groans a little against Barclay's lips and sighs when the kiss parts just long enough for a cold breath.

His eyes flutter open just long enough to see Barclay lick his lips like he’s chasing the feel and taste of Tom or maybe getting ready to say something. Tom leans forward to kiss him again, one of his hands drifting down from Barclay’s head, following the line of his spine. He’s not interested in words right now.

"Yeah," Barclay whispers. "Yeah, let's go to your room."

Had Tom offered aloud? He didn't think he had. This isn't the first time that's happened around Barclay, but he just...

Barclay leans down to nip at the juncture of his neck and jaw, effectively shutting Tom’s previous thought process down.

“Okay,” he breathes before he’s thought to. “My room. Let’s.”

It’s not unreasonable to think Barclay makes him talk out loud without intending to. His head’s already spinning a bit and his knees are turning to jelly. They’ve only been kissing for a minute or two.

"So if I wanted to try that Jelly-Legs Jinx on you, it'd be pretty easy," Barclay teases, and his tongue nips at Tom's earlobe. He hoists Tom right up into his arms to carry him to the bedroom even though it's only a few feet away.

“Wouldn’t even need magic,” Tom agrees, his mind whirring again. This time he’s _sure_ he hasn’t said anything. He wasn’t sagging against Barclay quite that obviously, was he?

"Barclay," he tries, tentative and -- almost sheepish, it seems so silly. "Barclay, can you, like... read thoughts?"

Barclay laughs right into the skin behind Tom’s ear. It raises goosebumps and ruffles the hair that curls at the back of his neck.

“Of course not,” Barclay says, then leans forward to lay Tom down onto his bed. He catches Tom’s expression then and falters.

“Wait, you really think so?”

"Well, it's just that you keep answering questions that I swear I didn't really ask," Tom says. "And if you can't remember other magic you did without realizing... other than the dummy-hoard, I mean..."

Barclay is still leaning over him, hands either side of Tom’s body but the way he’s looking down at Tom is a far cry from just before. His lips are red and plump, well-kissed and it messes with Tom’s head a bit, makes him want to drop the subject and go back to snogging, but. Well.

“Well, no, but--” Barclay starts. “I was really young. I don’t remember the dummies either. I only remember Con never used to need to sharpen his coloured pencils and Taylor’s hair always grew back and I was older then. I thought--”

"Barclay," Tom whispers, and he touches Barclay's hot cheek. "Why'd you think people were disappointed when they got back to yours and you wanted them to fuck you, instead of the other way around?"

Barclay flushes, whether at Tom’s directness of having confessed that to Tom at all, Tom doesn’t know, but he takes a moment to think about it. Then he shrugs.

“I don’t know. Was sort of obvious.”

 _Obvious how?_ Tom thinks. He stares at the wall, so that Barclay can't look into his eyes.

“You know, just the way they --” Barclay says and then breaks off.

“Holy shit,” he whispers instead of finishing his sentence. “Did you just say that?”

Tom is silent as he shakes his head. He tries to quiet his mind, too, silence the thoughts that want to burble up and swirl, but that's harder than it should be. He ought to ask James how to not think, since he's a master.

“I’ve never-- that’s never happened,” Barclay says. “It was so clear. Like I could actually hear you.”

"Well, that time I was really letting you," Tom says. "I didn't know it would work, though."

Barclay drops down to lie on the bed beside Tom, staring up at the ceiling.

“So, what you’re saying is I’ve been reading people’s thoughts all my life without knowing.”

Tom nods, and his head rustles against the bedclothes. "Probably."

“I mean, I’ve always been quite good at understanding people, but I just thought I was good at....” Barclay says, trailing off.

“Reading people?” Tom supplies with a smirk. Barclay chuckles a bit breathlessly.

“Suppose I am,” he says and turns to look at Tom, eyes a little wide and wild.

"So when we were in that pub..." Tom trails off.

"I didn't mean to like, trick you," Barclay says quickly.

"No, I was just going to ask how obvious it was that I hated that tequila."

Barclay laughs.

“Really obvious, but I don’t think knowing that has anything to do with reading your mind.”

“I’d never had it before,” Tom confesses.

Barclay pats Tom's chest. "It was written on your face, love, not your brain."

Tom grins and then rolls over, swings one leg over Barclay’s so he can sit on his thighs and peck him on the lips.

“Was it on my face or brain how fit I thought you were?”

Barclay hums just like his puffskein and rubs his hands up the length of Tom's thighs. "Face, brain, boner. Just all of you in general."

Tom puffs up his chest in indignation but can’t help but chuckle.

“I was going to complain, but it’s true,” he murmurs.

Barclay smiles, but still looks troubled. "Can you not read my thoughts?"

Tom laughs again.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It really _is_ very difficult. I never bothered to learn. You must be naturally talented at it.”

Barclay drops his face into the pillows. "Lucky me."

“What? No, why? Come on, you have to tell me,” Tom insists. “Is it about how fit you thought _I_ was?”

Barclay peeks up at him. "Maybe. But I also thought you were a nutter turning on the ceiling fan when it was already cold out."

Tom feels his cheeks grow hot.

“I didn’t know that’s what it does,” he mumbles.

Barclay grins and kisses Tom's chin, since that's what he can reach. "I know that now."

“Well, either you’re really trusting or I must’ve made a passable enough Muggle for you to not kick me out,” Tom says. His chin tickles from Barclay’s kiss.

"Like I said, at least you didn't burgle me," Barclay says. He wraps his arms around Tom again and pulls him close enough for a cuddle. "That's good enough."

“That’s terrifyingly low standards,” Tom protests, but melts into the heat of Barclay’s body.

Barclay kisses Tom's forehead this time. "I've met your friends. You have low standards, too."

"Hey!"

"Except Charlotte," Barclay amends. "You have a very high standard for cats."

"That's better," Tom grumps. He tilts his head up, and he lets Barclay kiss him quiet.

It’s a calm kiss, this one. Not the immediate flare of heat from the living room that led them here initially. It’s enjoyable in a different way. It warms Tom’s body slowly, makes his toes curls and his cheeks burn, his heart beat faster and his hands clutch at Barclay’s shirt to hold him _closer_.

Their lips slide together until Barclay pulls back, rests his forehead against Tom's, and whispers, "So. What'cha thinking?"

Tom isn’t thinking much of anything except that he’d quite like to keep kissing Barclay.

Barclay pecks him on the lips.

“Hang on, is that why you were so-- why you knew _exactly_ what I wanted, when-- when we...?” Tom asks. “Could you tell?”

A slow smile creeps across Barclay's lips. "Maybe I'm just that good."

“Maybe,” Tom allows. Either way it was fantastic and either way Tom can’t have been too shabby himself, given that Barclay’s here in his bed, dealing out kisses.

The sparkle in Barclay's eyes tells Tom that he heard that one loud and clear, and Tom scrunches his face together into a fond scowl. "You're the worst. I'm only here because you're going to show me car guts tomorrow."

 _Car guts_ , Barclay mouths.


	6. Tom Mann and the Internal Combustion Engine

** Tom Mann and the Internal Combustion Engine **

Tom wakes to find Barclay staring at him from across the mattress.

"What?" he wipes his mouth. "Drool? Or -- you can't like, see my dreams, can you?"

Barclay grins slowly.

“Can you?” Tom repeats, trying frantically to recall if he’d dreamed anything particularly raunchy involving himself and Barclay last night.

Barclay laughs and pecks him on the lips.

“Nah. Too messy. I can just get a sense. Good dreams?” he says, with a bit of a smirk.

Tom sniffs and hopes that his hair isn't doing that awful thing. "They were alright. All Ginny Weasley, you know. Wind in her hair on that broomstick."

Barclay does that thing with his face when he’s concentrating where his nose scrunches up a bit and his eyes go just the tiniest bit cross-eyed. Tom tries not to grin.

“Is she Mr. Weasley’s wife, or...?”

"No! Ugh. No, his daughter. She's the Quidditch writer for the Daily Prophet and she used to be a big superstar." Tom rolls onto his back to stretch. "I've mentioned her, I think. She was in Casey's House at school, before he was of course, but I don't hold that against her."

“Oh, yeah, right. You did mention her. She’s married to someone famous as well, right?” Barclay says, eyes trailing down Tom’s arms and the top of his chest that’s visible before snapping back to Tom’s face. Tom doesn’t comment on it, but maybe arches his back a bit more than strictly necessary under the blanket.

Tom nods. "Basically _the_ famous someone." He rolls back to face Barclay again and scoots close enough to hook his ankle around Barclay's beneath the sheets again. "Savior of the world, quasi-immortal miracle baby, et cetera."

“Quasi-immortal miracle baby?” Barclay asks, amused tilt to his mouth. “Sounds like a catch.”

Tom shrugs as best he can while supine. He slides his hand to trace over the small of Barclay's back beneath the warm t-shirt he wears to bed. "If you're into the heroic type, I guess."

Barclay shivers a little under the touch.

“I take it that means you’re not into the heroic type,” he says. “Just their wives then?”

Tom laughs, warm and sleepy and soft-eyed. Barclay's hair is too short to get mussed in sleep, but a crease from the pillowcase lines his cheek. "Only in my dreams."

“So what you’re saying is I’m not dreamy enough,” Barclay teases, nosing along the line of Tom’s cheek.

Tom turns and pecks at Barclay's mouth even though his own tastes terrible. "You know that's not what I think."

“No? How would I know that?” Barclay grins, kissing Tom back, still close-mouthed and early-morning-sweet. Tom thinks about thinking something particularly x-rated at Barclay and apparently that’s all it takes, since Barclay chokes on a laugh and then turns his face into the space between Tom’s head and the pillow.

“Um, sorry?” Tom says.

Barclay's ears are bright red. "Think that way often?"

“I mean -- like -- not--” What is Tom even supposed to _say_ to that? It crosses his mind when he’s in bed with a fit bloke who he knows is a fantastic shag.

Barclay turns his head, and when his eyes meet Tom's, they're darker and smokier than usual. "Me, too."

“Yeah?” Tom asks, voice a bit darker and smokier than usual as well. At Barclay’s nod he fits their lips together again, mouths a bit more open this time, despite the morning staleness. This is not doing anything to change that particular line of Tom’s thinking.

Barclay hauls him closer with his big hands, and it's not like they haven't snogged at all since Barclay came to stay, but this feels different.

Maybe because Tom knows that if he thinks very loudly about what Barclay’s hands feel like on him, Barclay will know. And with every one of Tom’s loud thoughts, Barclay’s hands do something especially wicked and wonderful, in some sort of amazing feedback loop.

Barclay laughs softly against Tom's mouth and pulls Tom so that he's lying over him, hips able to press down against the spread of Barclay's thighs.

"Ow!" Tom rears back when Charlotte's sharp claws dig into his shoulders. "Charlotte!"

Charlotte lets go of his shoulders and hops down onto the bed next to them, butting her face right in between their faces. Tom can’t do anything but stare at her. Betrayed by his own flesh and blood.

She meows insistently until they move apart enough for her to wriggle into the gap. Her tail hits Tom in the eye, because of course it does.

“Traitor,” Tom huffs, sitting up on Barclay’s lap and watching as Barclay pets at Charlotte’s back.

“Don’t encourage her!” he says.

Barclay just coos at Charlotte and gamely accepts it when she licks at his Adam's apple with her hooked pink tongue. "She didn't mean it."

Tom's not so sure, personally.

“She’s a diva,” Tom says. “Needs attention all the time. You’ll spoil her.”

Barclay pets Tom's thigh with the same rhythm he has going down Charlotte's curved back. "Are you _sure_ she's not your familiar, then?"

Tom viciously thinks about poking Barclay in the stomach. Hard.

Barclay just laughs and tickles Tom's knee. "Gerrup, you. The garage opens at ten."

The mention of the garage makes Tom perk up immediately, making Barclay laugh even more and wink at him.

"What should I wear?" Tom asks. "I don't have many Muggle clothes. I haven't any that look like the outfits people wear to drive the fast cars."

“I’m not sure what you think people wear to drive fast cars but either way that’s not what you wear to work in a garage. Just pick something you don’t mind getting dirty,” Barclay says.

Tom wrinkles his nose. "Why would I get dirty?"

"Car guts." Barclay throws off the blankets and stands, stretching his arms above his head.

"Cars don't have blood," Tom sniffs. He glimpses along the line of hair just peeping between Barclay's t-shirt and pants. "Do they?"

“Well, no, they’re not alive,” Barclay says. “But they have motor oil and just... general dirt-ness. There’s always a bit of dust or mud or something. A garage just isn’t particularly clean.”

He shrugs, looking a bit apologetic before frowning a bit.

“Though I suppose you could just magic any stains away anyway, couldn’t you?”

Tom gives Charlotte a last kiss to her little pink nose as she curls into the warm divot Barclay's body left behind on the pillow. "Probably. I'm used to mud and grass stains and that, from playing Quidditch."

“Is there not a way to make clothes stain-proof? I feel like that’s the first thing my mum would’ve-” Barclay says and then breaks off. This time his frown is a bit more agitated than considering.

"Feel like it'd be likely to make them slippery," Tom says lightly. He wraps his arms around Barclay's middle and rests his cheek against the back of his shoulder blade, thinking sweet things to steer him away from his frustration.

“And anyway, part of the fun is getting dirty,” he adds.

Barclay lifts Tom's arm and kisses the inside of his elbow. It should have been strange, but it wasn't -- something Tom was realizing encapsulated Barclay most every day.

“So, have you decided how you want to go yet? I can Apparate us close by or we can take the Floo to your parents’,” Tom says. He’s rather enjoying his place here at the back of Barclay’s shoulder blade.

Barclay hums and kisses the bulb of Tom's palm, low near the pulse point of his wrist. "I dunno. Is there more spinning in Apparating or in the Floo?"

“The Floo, probably?” Tom says, trying to consider it. “Apparating is bit more ... squeezing? There’s a lot of pressure.”

Barclay grunts, but kisses the knuckle of Tom's index finger. "The Floo, then. I don't really enjoy all the spinning. That's one thing Muggles really have over you lot."

“You get used to it,” Tom says rubs the tip of his nose against Barclay’s shirt. He’s very close to suggesting they just stay in but... car guts. Also, Barclay’s parents.

Barclay grunts again, just a little whiny sound not unlike their pets and one that Tom is fairly certain he probably learnt from living with Casey for a week, as Casey whinged constantly.

“Come on, you big baby,” Tom says, very encouragingly, and pats Barclay on the stomach. And then again, just for good measure. (And maybe because Barclay’s stomach feels great under his hand.)

"Alright, alright." Barclay says. "But I require you to feed me. After the spinning. You're buying the coffee and toasties when we get to Devon."

“I can do that,” Tom says before he remembers, “if you let me pop down to Gringotts first. I don’t have any Muggle money.”

Barclay turns and pecks a light kiss on Tom's lips. "That makes two of us. Gringotts is fine."

“Do you want to come with? There will be spinning or squeezing,” Tom asks.

Barclay hums, then pulls away from Tom to retrieve a jumper from the back of a chair. There are little white Charlotte fur hairs clinging all over it. "Yeah, I'll come. I should get the practice in, and I like Diagon Alley."

“Alright,” Tom says, watching Barclay pull on the jumper, secretly glad that Charlotte marks Tom’s territory for her.

They both dress, and once Barclay's tucked Ophiuchus into his pocket, Tom Apparates to the gargantuan white marble staircase outside Gringotts.

“Oooh... that’s just not fun,” Barclay says, a little green around the nose.

Tom puts a soothing hand on his back and coos at him a bit.

“Are you alright?”

Ophy coos back from the depths of Barclay's pocket, and Tom gets a tongue up the nose for his concern.

"'M'alright," Barclay agrees. "I'll never get used to that. Why again can't we just fly on your broom to get here?"

“We could, but it’d take a lot longer,” Tom says. “Good to go in?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m alright,” Barclay says and looks up at the imposing marble structure in front of them. “Is that... structurally sound?”

"Probably," Tom says. "The only people who die in it get the dragons angry. That's the rumor, at least; I've never seen a dragon."

“You have dragons in your _bank_?” Barclay asks. “Any other surprises?”

"I don't think so." Tom pushes open the heavy door, and they join the queue behind a long-haired witch toting a fat baby on her hip. The baby stares at Barclay over its mother's shoulder as it chews viciously on the leg of a plush hippogriff.

Barclay watches it curiously, as if he’s half-expecting the baby or the toy to explode.

The toy dribbles out of the tiny witch's mouth and she grins at Barclay, her eyes lighting up. Barclay waggles his fingers at her, just as delighted.

Tom wonders what she's thinking that's made Barclay so glad.

The baby's hair shifts from pale blonde to bright green and then to teal and purple, and Tom expects for Barclay's usual surprise, but instead he just grins.

The witch tickles the baby's belly. "Are you bored? Having some fun with colors?"

“Can all magic babies do that?” Barclay asks Tom quietly. “Could you? I can see you sporting red hair.”

Tom shakes his head. "Nah, but I wish. It's really rare, actually. Like, what you said about your sister fixing bad haircuts -- that's common, but not full-on colors."

“Did you do that as a kid? Fix your bad haircuts and such?” Barclay asks.

"I never had a bad haircut. I've been this stylish since before birth."

Barclay chuckles as the line moves forward, an elderly wizard muttering to himself as he turns to leave.

“Of course. My apologies.”

Tom smiles up at him rather winningly if he does say so himself, and Barclay bends to kiss Tom's mouth. The wet leg of a plush hippogriff hits Tom's cheek. 

Barclay, the traitor, chuckles.

He bends down to scoop up the toy, but wraps his arm around Tom's waist when he returns to his feet. He jiggles the hippogriff so that its wings flap as he hands it back to the baby metamorphmagus.

She claps excitedly and reaches her grubby little fingers out towards it, her hair going bright orange. Her mother notices then and smiles at them benignly, watching them interact with her. Barclay hands the baby the hippogriff just in time for the mother and her baby to step up to the Gringotts counter for their banking.

“How much do you think we’ll need?” Tom asks, in preparation for the next spot become available to them. He’s found that the goblins like it best when you know what you want and don’t waste their time.

"Er, for coffee and toasties? Not much. Maybe twenty quid max?" Barclay scratches the back of his neck. "It's not like there's really sight-seeing or anything to do in Devon, and I've my own car."

“Hm,” Tom says. The question is - will they be doing this enough for it to make more sense to just get a bit more now, so Tom won’t have to come down again whenever they decide to next venture into the Muggle world?

"It's just a quick trip," Barclay says, and he sounds sheepish, like now that he _knows_ that he's answering a question from inside Tom's mind, he thinks he shouldn't. "Don't put yourself out over me."

“Alright then,” Tom says, with a grin. He can understand how some people would be intimidated by Barclay’s natural predilection for legilimency, and he can’t quite say why he doesn’t mind more that Barclay might be poking around in his head at any time, but he just ... doesn’t.

The baby, now sporting a black quiff suspiciously similar to the one on Barclay's own head, shrieks, and then it and its mother are off, and Tom steps up to the counter.

The goblin pushes his pince-nez up the bridge of his short, flattish nose. "State your name and business."

Barclay's hand tightens on Tom's waist.

Maybe when Barclay asked about surprises, Tom should have thought to mention the goblins.

“Thomas Mann. I’d like to exchange some galleons for Muggle money. British Pounds.”

An ostrich-feather quill the size of Barclay's upper arm begins to scribble long lines of mathematical equations across the long vanilla-yellow scroll of parchment in front of the goblin. "The current exchange rate is 1:4.9813 and projected to inflate sharply over the next one-hundred years. Do you wish to continue your transaction?"

“I do,” Tom says, watching the goblin scribble some more.

“What amount would you like to exchange?”

“Um, however much will get me twenty pounds,” he says, trying not to flinch. He remembers when he was little he used to think Muggle money was weighed and that twenty pounds literally meant twenty pounds of money. He thought all Muggles were immensely rich.

"Four galleons, two sickles, and a knut," provides the goblin in a voice suggesting that Tom is an idiot. "We also require five sickles to the bank as a transaction charge. Do you accept?"

“I do,” Tom repeats and then counts out the money as required. He slides it over the counter, watching the goblin count it with that same inscrutable look on his face that they all have before he slides over a single banknote. Paper money. Tom’s never quite sure if he thinks that’s brilliant or ridiculous. Anything could happen to it!

"Is that all?" he asks. "Just the one?"

"Muggle money is available in denominations of twenty, ten, five, and one, less coins," says the goblin. "Would you prefer two tens or four fives?"

"Er," Tom says. "No?"

“Then yes. Just the one,” the goblin says.

“Right. Thank you,” Tom says and steps back, forgetting for a moment about Barclay and nearly tripping over his feet.

Barclay is silent as he follows Tom back to the Apparating area of the front steps. "All that gold for just twenty pounds?"

“It’s not that much,” Tom says. “I have plenty more.”

"Is it wizards who are all actually really poor, then, or Muggles?" Barclay's eyebrows crowd together in a wrinkle at the middle of his face. "Or am I just terrible at maths?"

Tom shrugs.

“I don’t think it’s that important? I don’t think the amount of Galleons there are has any influence on the amount of Muggle money there is,” he says.

Barclay keeps frowning. "I'm just... wondering what else my parents knew they were giving up having when they became Muggles. If we could've had more, growing up. Had it a bit easier."

Tom bites his lip for a moment as they step back outside into the sunlight and grabs Barclay’s hand.

“Isn’t that normal though? If Muggles fled a Muggle war, wouldn’t they also have to leave everything?”

Barclay shrugs. "Yeah, I s'pose. It just... looking around, it's hard to remember -- it's hard to imagine there being a war."

Tom has seen pictures, only once, of what the Muggle world looked like after their last big war. Looking around at Diagon Alley, he imagines that’s probably what Barclay was expecting.

“Magic can fix things really well. But it doesn’t fix people.”

Barclay is quiet, even as Tom wraps his arms around him again and they go squeezing, spinning deep into space and folding in on themselves like black light as Tom Apparates them back home.

Barclay has his head between his knees and a puffskein tongue helpfully in his ear, recovering from the dizziness, when Casey wanders out of his bedroom in his pants.

"Are you lovebirds off to see the Muggles?" He gives his belly a hearty scratch.

“Yeah,” Tom says, one hand on Barclay’s back. He can’t quite keep the happy anticipation from his voice entirely. “Barclay’s going to show me the insides of a car!”

Casey just yawns, and the hand on his belly migrates below the waistband of his pants, still scratching away. "Woohoo. Make sure you listen carefully, Thomas, and don't touch the red wire. You may explode."

"Is that true?" Tom looks up at Barclay. "Could I explode?"

"Not really." Barclay kisses his head. "You'd just fry from the inside. Maybe don't touch things unless I tell you it's alright."

Tom can’t say he’s not equal parts horrified and intrigued. He’s not sure they’re not messing with him either. Generally Muggle machines have to be started in some way to do anything, don’t they? But then maybe that’s what the red wire is.

“Alright,” he says.

Barclay smiles, and he looks happy about this visit to his parents' for the first time. "Good boy. Case, we're stealing your pumpkin juice."

He heads off to the kitchen to retrieve it as Casey whines a long _no..._

“Just pop over to Rosmerta’s and get more. We were running low anyway and the old woman loves you,” Tom says, rolling his eyes.

What Barclay wants, Barclay gets. Especially if Tom can provide it as easily as giving up the few bottles of pumpkin juice from their kitchen.

Casey just keeps grumbling as he stumbles back to his bedroom. When the door opens, a flash of Betsy's long blonde hair drapes across his pillow.

Tom can feel one of his eyebrows jumping up. Well, well... you’d think Casey’d be more forgiving with such a lovely girl in his bed.

Barclay reappears, jug of pumpkin juice in the crook of his arm and Charlotte twining around his ankles. Charlotte meows insistently and with great suffering, and Barclay laughs.

"Is that so, little princess?" he murmurs. "Casey's left you for another pretty girl?"

"Can you read animal thoughts?" Tom asks. "I wouldn't have thought they could think in words."

"She doesn't," Barclay says. "But no one does, not really. It's not all that different from people-thoughts."

“Huh,” Tom says. It’s not that he didn’t know that Charlotte was a clever little thing, but it’s quite another thing entirely to hear that the inside of her head isn’t all that unlike the inside of his own.

Certainly makes parselmouth look a lot less impressive.

At least Barclay isn't meowing right back.

“All set then?” Tom asks, reaching out a hand to pull Barclay’s free arm around himself. “Still Apparating or do you want the Floo now?”

Barclay grumbles and it sounds, really, much like an unhappy niffler. "Floo, I suppose. I've to hold onto all this juice."

“Alright then. What’s your parents’ address? We’ll need that,” Tom says, stepping towards the fireplace.

“How exact do you need it? It’s just with the Menagerie and such you just say the name? But my parents’ place doesn’t have a name.”

Tom's brow furrows. "Well, they must be set up to the Floo, since they showed up here, right?"

"All this time," Barclay mutters. "All this time, even in that house."

"It's alright," Tom says. "I'm sure it was just for emergencies. Just... give the post address."

Barclay nods and grabs a handful of Floo powder, throwing it into the embers, no longer startled by the green flames that erupt immediately. Tom shuffles up next to him as Barclay recites the address so that he doesn’t accidentally Floo to Professor Longbottom’s house or somewhere equally humiliating and incorrect. Compared to the first time Tom made him do it alone he looks downright comfortable now.

Tom smiles as encouragingly as he can while Barclay gives the address and the flames roar higher. Once Barclay is gone, Tom crouches to give Charlotte a goodbye cuddle.

"Give Casey and Betsy hell from me," he whispers to her. She purrs with great validation.

He repeats the address just to be safe and slips in after Barclay, watching the other fireplaces zoom by until the Floo network spits him back out in the Bealeses living room.

"Is that a wizard?" asks a girl who looks to be about thirteen or fourteen and has Barclay's exact face. "Why's he wearing jeans, then? That Mr. Weasley had wizard robes when he came."

“Er, hi,” Tom says. “I’m Tom. I _am_ a wizard, even with jeans on.”

"Oh, _that's_ Tom," says a slightly-younger Barclay, knowingly. "Now I understand why you didn't come home for a week."

"Shut up, Con," Barclay mutters.

Tom tries to keep his pleased smile to a polite minimum, but judging by Barclay’s expression at least he can tell what’s going through his head loud and clear.

“Hi,” Tom says again, straightening up and holding out his hand to the girl, since she’s closer. “You’re, er, Taylor?”

She shakes his hand without hesitation. "The smart one, yeah. Are you here to convince Mum to let me go to wizard school?"

“I didn’t think parents needed convincing to let their kids go to school,” Tom says.

Taylor rolls her eyes.

“Not school, _wizard school_.”

"Well, it is a school." Tom bristles a little, even though he knows better. "I was Head Boy, after all, and that meant doing extra meters of homework every night."

“ _Meters_ of homework?” Taylor asks, sounding horrified. “They assign you homework by the meter?”

“Well, yes,” Tom says. “Do Muggle schools not? What else do you measure your essays in?”

"Pages," pipes Connor. "Pages, sheets of paper. Are wizards trapped in medieval times? Do you use papyrus scrolls?"

"Those weren't medieval, Con," Taylor says, rolling her eyes.

“We use rolls of parchment,” Tom says, withstanding the urge to shuffle on his feet. He’s not going to be nervous about being questioned by Barclay’s siblings about school of all things.

"Do wands not work on paper? Mr. Weasley said that magic interferes with technology, but I thought he meant, like, the TV," Taylor pulls Tom over to the sofa and sits.

“They work fine on paper,” Tom says with a shrug. Truth be told, many of the Muggleborn students started using Muggle notebooks in their fourth, fifth year, only handing in their homework on parchment as requested. He doesn’t know why exactly wizards use parchment. Tom never thought to question it.

"Oh." Taylor looks disappointed. "I fancied the idea of a giant quill from like, a cassowary or something. That's alright. Is it true you've no maths classes?"

“Those work on paper too. Or parchment. And, no, there’s no maths at Hogwarts.”

"Mum!" Taylor hollers. "I want to go to Hogwarts and escape maths!"

“Have Barcs and Tom come round?” Mrs. Beales calls back. “And don’t worry, I’d pack your maths books. You can just study on your own.”

Taylor wraps her hands over Tom's cheeks so that she can look into his eyes. "Save me from maths. And teach me air-football."

“No,” Barclay says. “You’re not doing anything that can break your bones.”

Before Taylor can protest properly, Mrs. Beales shuffles into the room, pulling Barclay into a tentative hug.

"Oh, you brought the pumpkin juice; thank you, love." She kisses his cheek. "And hello again, Tom. Taylor, let go of his face, for pete's sake."

She mouths ‘save me’ at him but lets go. Good to know Muggle teenagers aren’t any less dramatic than what Tom remembers Hogwarts being.

“Hello, Mrs. Beales. Thank you for having me over,” he says, offering his hand for her to shake.

She grasps it between both of hers, and her hands are warm and soft. "Thank you for keeping an eye on my son."

“Of course,” Tom says, smiling and then turns to who must be Barclay’s brother.

"Keeping more than an eye on him, though," Connor mutters to Barclay, who promptly socks him in the kidney.

Tom grins, but otherwise makes no indication he heard him. He’d tell him what a pleasure it’s been to have Barclay over, just for the expression it’d probably provoke, but, like, Barclay’s mum is still right there.

"Connor," she snaps. "Honestly. Here, Barclay dear, I'll take that jug -- thank you -- food will be ready in just a few minutes."

It seems sort of too late to offer Connor the handshake-introduction-routine as well, so Tom just grins at him when he catches his eye.

"So, you're like a famous wizard athlete, Dad says," Connor offers. He flops down on an armchair, and Barclay joins Tom and Taylor on the sofa. "What's that about?"

“Not, like, super famous,” Tom says. He can practically hear his mother tell him that _no one likes a braggart, Thomas_. “I just play for a team that’s doing quite well right now.”

"Can girls play?" Taylor asks. Her chin sticks out.

“Of course,” Tom says, brow furrowing a bit. “Half my team are girls.”

"They're a bit terrifying," Barclay adds, which even Tom can tell he's saying to entice Taylor further. "One of them carries a big bat to hit people with."

"During the game, or just, like, in life?"

“She doesn’t hit _people_ with it,” Tom says. He’s got a feeling Barclay’s never going to let them go. “Well, not in the game at least. She hits balls that hit people.”

Taylor seems undeterred. "Excellent."

Tom takes in her determined expression for a moment and sort of feels like he should introduce her to Parisa and also keep her as far away from her as possible in equal measures.

"Food's ready!" Mrs. Beales calls from the kitchen, and her children stampede towards the doorway, leaving Tom in their dust.

So far it’s been easy enough, but he still takes a moment to take a breath and tell himself he’ll be fine before he follows, sitting down next to Barclay, which seems to be the seat they’ve saved for him.

"Hello again, Tom," says Mr. Beales, smiling at him. "Thanks for the pumpkin juice. I've missed it."

“Nothing quite like it,” Tom agrees. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing the garage later on myself.”

Mr. Beales shakes his head. "Maybe you'll like it so much, you and Barcs can just live here and work there. I'll take your spot on the Magpies."

Tom can’t help a laugh.

“I don’t think I’ll find anything I like better than Quidditch. As a job, I mean.”

"No, I don't expect so." Mr. Beales has that wistful look again as Mrs. Beales takes her seat and sets the last platter of yorkshire puddings on the table.

It’s a bit like being back at Hogwarts, platters of delicious looking roast and beans and peas and gravy and mash and Yorkshire puddings - Christ, who is Mrs. Beales trying to feed? - weighing down the table and hungry kids grabbing for it as if they’re starving.

"You might want to move more quickly, Tom," Mrs. Beales says, "Or it'll all be gone."

Her three kids slow down a little and Taylor hands Tom the bowl of peas like a peace offering.

Heh.

Next to him, Barclay snorts a laugh and Tom grins over at him.

"Mmm," Tom offers. "Peas."

Barclay gives Tom a knowing look and graciously offers the last yorkshire pudding. "Sorry, love."

Tom is honestly impressed by that, but takes the offered pudding and then sets the empty platter down next to his plate.

“It all looks fantastic,” Tom says to Mrs. Beales while reaching for the gravy. Casey and he never bother to cook like this.

"Oh, it's nothing," says Mrs. Beales, but Tom doesn't need to be a mind-reader like her son to know that she's pleased.

He wonders how hard it was to learn to do everything the Muggle way while also raising kids at the same time. Sure, food is one of the exceptions to Gamp’s Law, but even cooking is so different when you have to actually stir everything by hand and can’t just tell your kitchenware what to do. And that’s just the one thing.

"Do you drive?" Tom asks her curiously. "A car, I mean?"

Mr. Beales lets out a quick full belly-laugh before turning it into a cough at the quelling look his wife sends him. A second later she’s smiling as well.

“It’s not like you fared any better, dear,” she says.

“To answer your question, Tom. Yes. We do,” Mr. Beales says.

Barclay looks at his dad. "Did you learn mechanics just to figure out how to drive the things?"

Mr. Beales shrugs and smiles, seeming pleased that Barclay’s taking an interest.

“Two birds with one stone.”

"Is your license even legal?" asks Connor. He even sets down his fork.

"Not... strictly," says Mrs. Beales. "As strictly, your father and I don't exist in Muggle records."

"And you made me take the test three times!"

"I didn't make you," laughs Mr. Beales. "You just failed the first two."

Connor grumbles something about how unfair life is.

“If I go to wizard school can I just learn how to fly a broom and not bother with a car?” Taylor asks.

“You’re not allowed to be seen doing anything magical by anyone without magic,” Tom says. “It’ll get you in trouble.”

“Yeah, Tom thought he’d end up in jail for Flooing in front of me,” Barclay adds, a little teasingly.

"That sounds a bit like something that should land a person in jail," says Connor. "It sounds dirty."

Tom can’t decide whether to be affronted or amused. It’s a perfectly harmless word to him of course, but he supposes if you’ve only just learned it it might still sound like anything when put into a sentence like that.

" _Connor._ " Mrs. Beales has clearly chosen 'affronted.' "And Taylor, no, if you choose to go to Hogwarts... I suppose there's a chance you'd never need to drive a car."

“Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still learn,” Mr. Beales says immediately. “It’s quite useful to know. Especially if you want to continue living like this. You know you can’t tell any of your friends about any of this.”

That does make Taylor pause. She looks to Tom. "Would it be easy to make new friends? Coming -- coming from a house like, living like a Muggle, I mean?"

Tom tries to weigh it up.

“I mean... it depends on which House you’re sorted into, I suppose. And if you get lucky with the people in your year. Generally it’s much better now than it used to be,” he says. “It’ll probably be stranger that you’ve not been there since first year than that you grew up as a Muggle.”

Mrs. Beales is quiet. "Would she be safe?"

“As long as she stays away from the giant squid,” Tom quips and then immediately backtracks. “No, sorry, I-- yeah. She’d be perfectly safe. There was a Muggleborn girl in Slytherin the year below mine and it was a bit strange for the kids from... very old families. But by her third year it was pretty much old news and she was just one of us.”

Mrs. Beales' mouth works, and Tom can't read her face. But Barclay -- Barclay can read her, Barclay knows what she's thinking. So Tom looks to Barclay for what happens now.

Either Barclay’s making an effort not to read his mum’s mind, or Tom’s not very good at reading Barclay. Mostly, Barclay’s expression is quite similar to his mum’s which really doesn’t tell Tom much.

“I’m sure you could talk to Professor McGonagall about any concerns you have,” Tom tries. “She’s headmistress now.”

"She's a good woman," offers Mr. Beales to his wife.

“Yes, I do remember her,” she says, a little snappy. Then she sighs.

“You could also talk to Professor Longbottom? He teaches herbology and he’s the Gryffindor Head of House now, but he, er. He was there. During the war. He’s a pureblood, but he’d probably be able to tell you how things have changed and such,” Tom says. “I was only there after the war.”

Barclay glances at Tom. "Is that the hot professor?"

Tom grumbles. "That's not important. What's important is that he's really a good person to be able to judge what's happening."

“You have hot professors?” Taylor asks, perking up for the first time.

Tom closes his eyes and wishes that he were being devoured as wholly as the roast, just so as not to be here in this moment.

“One of my professors was a ghost,” Tom says, hoping to nip this conversation in the bud.

"A hot ghost?" Taylor asks. "Like in _The Mediator_?"

"No," says Tom. "A really old, really dull ghost."

“Poor Binns,” Mr. Beales comments. “Still boring students half to death then?”

"I don't think he'll ever stop," Tom says. "But you have to admire his commitment."

“If he keeps going long enough he can teach history he actually witnessed,” Mrs. Beales suggests with a small grin.

Tom laughs. "I've seen Peeves try to start a debate about the Great Glumbumble Treacle Shortage of Ought-Three between Binns and Nearly Headless Nick, so we're approaching that day, I think."

“ _Nearly-Headless?_ ” Connor asks, the same way absolutely everyone does - or at least wants to - the first time they hear it mentioned. “Is he a ghost too, or, like, a zombie?”

“Ghost,” Tom says. “They just did a really bad job at chopping his head off. Probably why he stuck around, I reckon. Got confused whether he was meant to be dead or not.”

Connor pushes some carrots around on his plate. Tom watches Barclay watch him -- whose mind is he reading at this dinner? How has he never noticed that he can see into his family's minds? Or maybe he doesn't, really, since that wouldn't be polite.

Barclay hooks his ankle around Tom's beneath the table, so there's his answer.

"Why didn't they just fix his neck and bring him back, then?" Connor asks Tom.

"Well, they were executing him at the time, so they didn't want to have him alive, I'd guess," Tom says. "And he was dead, properly. Just... not pretty."

"Would he have been pretty with a better neck?"

"No, Taylor," sighs Mrs. Beales. She gives her daughter more peas to keep her quiet.

“I don’t think Nick minds much that he’s a ghost,” Tom says.

Sure, he floats around sighing a lot but it’s mostly about how the stuck-up pricks of the Headless Hunt don’t consider him headless enough to be a part of it. He perks up whenever someone asks him about Potter though, boasting that he’d been at one of his Deathday parties once, back before he was Super War Hero Potter and still just a Miracle Baby. Professor Longbottom seems friendly with him as well, Tom remembers. Probably because Nick’s the Gryffindor house ghost though Tom can’t say he ever achieved anything more cordial than “respect” instead of “terror” with respect to the Bloody Baron.

The Bloody Baron's a bloody berk, though, so he's a bit glad they aren't friendly. It'd probably mean that Tom was a nob.

“Is that the only ghost at... Hogwarts?” Taylor asks, peas gone from her plate.

Tom reaches for his glass to hide swallowing the lump stuck in his throat. Most of the teenage ghosts seem alright with hanging around their former school, but it’s still the most on-the-nose reminder of the War.

“No, there are a few,” Tom says.

Mrs. Beales looks up. "Harry Potter?"

“No, he’s alive and kicking. Auror Department, I think. Married Mr. Weasley’s daughter, actually,” Tom says, deciding to gloss over the whole temporary death part involved in the Battle of Hogwarts. That’s probably a topic for another day.

Merlin’s pants, he can’t imagine being as out of touch with the wizarding world - the only world Tom knows, really - as the Bealeses are. He wonders if it’s become normal to them or if they still miss it.

Mrs. Beales doesn't look mollified. "Students, though?"

"Well before my time," Tom says. "I think even Binns teaches it now. History."

“Love,” Mr. Beales cuts in, voice warm and heavy, “it was war. That’s why we left.”

The ‘you can hardly be surprised people died’ hangs in the air.

Taylor finishes her peas. "Well, you must've won, right? Since Tom's here and all."

"Yeah," Tom says. "We won. The good guys, I mean. The good guys won. Really, Mrs. Beales. And it's -- it's not perfect now, but I wouldn't say Taylor should go to Hogwarts if I thought she'd be in danger."

“You know, mum, Tom was headboy when he was there. I’m sure the teachers still love him and you could go talk to whoever’s headboy now and them. See for yourself?” Barclay suggests.

The frown on Mrs. Beales’ face deepens a bit before smoothing out as she looks over at Barclay.

“We could bring Taylor. Maybe once she’s there it’s not even as interesting as it sounds,” Barclay says.

Tom doubts that, but keeps his mouth shut and his smile as polite as possible.

"Yeah, dear," Mr. Beales says. He pats her arm. "We'll just have her sit in on History of Magic and Ancient Runes."

Mrs. Beales looks set to protest at least the Runes part of the comment but with a glance at Taylor keeps her mouth shut. She sighs, but smiles a little at the excitement on her daughter’s face.

“Seems I’m overruled,” she says.

"Mum, it will be so fun!" enthuses Taylor. "Wizard school! Aren't you excited to see it?"

Mrs. Beales finally laughs. "Well, I did attend it, once upon a time. I was a fairly accomplished witch, you know."

Taylor gives her mother that look all children give their parents when thinking about them having had a life before and outside of being parents - half scepticism, half awe.

“What did you do NEWTs in?” Tom asks, out of curiosity as well as politeness.

"Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, _Runes_ \--" she shoots a pointed look at Mr. Beales -- "and Divination."

"Really?" Barclay asks. "Divination? Is that like... fortune-telling?"

"It's more than that," Mrs. Beales says defensively. "My specialty was ovomancy, you know." She smiles at him and touches his hand. "That's why I always taught you that two yolks was lucky."

Huh. Maybe knowing what’s inside other people’s heads is a family trait then, if Mrs. Beales has a keen interest in divination.

“I’ve never been particularly good at any of it, I’m afraid,” Tom says.

"I can see that," Barclay says with a little smile caught in his voice. "Charlotte says you're very easy to surprise. And I've been there myself, so I agree."

“Is Charlotte your sister?” Taylor asks, perking up.

“My cat,” Tom says, grumbling a little bit. Good to know his suspicions were correct at least and Charlotte really _does_ delight in startling him.

“Your cat?” Mr. Beales asks, eyebrows a little higher and mouth twisted in amusement.

Mrs. Beales is frowning a bit again, looking at Barclay like she’s trying to read his mind. For his part, Barclay mostly looks sheepish, which isn’t all that different from how he looks all the time.

“Are you talking to his cat or are you _talking_ to his cat?” Mrs. Beales asks.

"Little bit of both," Barclay mumbles. He transfers a sliver of carrot from his plate to Tom's, and Mrs. Beales gives a long-suffering sigh. Barclay grins winningly -- then his mouth purses and his brow gathers. "Did you know? Could you tell? Can _you_ do it?"

“Only with a lot of concentration and I never get a lot. Hardly ever with animals. Certainly not ones I’ve just met,” she says. “Legilimency isn’t generally taught at school. It’s a highly invasive and specialised skill. You only get classes at school if you show signs of natural ability. Mostly so you can learn not to do it.”

Barclay's cheeks color. "I'm not evil. I promise." 

Under the table, Tom's hand finds Barclay's knee and he squeezes.

“Oh, no, love, of course not,” Mrs. Barclay says, reaching out a hand to cover Barclay’s. “But you understand why people would be wary of others just peeking into their heads.”

"Wait!" Connor yelps. "Barclay can read minds?"

"Duh," Taylor says. "Obviously you can't or you'd've known like five minutes ago."

“Really though?” Connor asks, eyes wide. “So if I think of a number between one and one hundred-”

“Sixty-five,” Barclay says.

“Okay, but-”

“1,273. It doesn’t get more difficult just because it’s a bigger number.”

Connor pushes back from the table and crosses his arms. He looks huffy, but not really _angry_ , Tom thinks. "That's not fair. No wonder he always knew when I borrowed two pounds."

"I never had more than two pounds!" Barclay shoves Connor's shoulder. "I knew because I'd had money, and then very soon didn't!"

“Well, Taylor could’ve taken it!” Connor insists.

“Taylor wheedled money out of dad, she had no need to take mine,” Barclay says.

Taylor’s grin says she’s clearly proud of herself for it.

Mrs. Beales covers her face with her hands and it doesn't take legilimency to tell that she despairs of her entire lot of children. Mr. Beales just looks a bit proud.

 

"I think that went well," Tom says later, back at the flat, the traitor Charlotte purring beneath his chin as she works her way back into his good graces. "It'll be fun to take Taylor to see Chris at the Menagerie tomorrow."

“She’ll love it,” Barclay agrees. The smile on his face looks not unhappy, but still tired.

Tom lifts Charlotte up so her face is next to his and gives Barclay his best inviting pout.

“Want to come cuddle us in bed for a bit?”

Barclay's face breaks into a smile. "Yeah, sure. Let me shower off the grease smell from the garage first. I know you were excited, but trust me, it doesn't take well to bedding."

“Well, alright. You know where everything is,” Tom says but catches Barclay’s hand as he makes to walk past him and nuzzles his face into the juncture between his shoulder and neck, planting a soft kiss there.

Tom raps on Casey's door once Barclay disappears into the bathroom. "Casey! I want to tell you about cars! I touched a plugspark!"

"Spark plug," calls Betsy through the door. "Even I know that, Thomas."

Tom was just about to reach for the handle of the door, but now he halts, hand hovering.

“... is it safe to come in or are you plugging sparks?”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Casey says, pulling the door open from the other side.

They’re both fully dressed and watching a movie, from the looks of it.

"Hi, Betsy. Casey, thanks for not burning the place down while we were gone."

Charlotte leaps out of Tom's arms and directly towards Casey, climbing up his front until she's nestled on his chest, bathing his stubble with a careful paw.

“That was _one_ time and I had it completely under control,” Casey grumbles, not phased anymore by Charlotte’s strange mothering instincts.

Betsy laughs from where she’s lounging on the bed.

“You couldn’t even remember aguamenti,” she scoffs.

Casey buries his face into her long blonde hair and kisses her neck. "I'll make you forget 'aguamenti.'"

“Merlin’s pants,” Tom mumbles, scooping Charlotte back up. He’s immensely glad every Hogwarts student masters the muffliato. He doesn’t want to imagine what living with Casey would be like without soundproofing.

"Not the pants I'm interested in," Casey confirms. He and Betsy cuddle together even closer. "So, how were the car guts? Everything you dreamed?"

“There are so many _parts_!” Tom enthuses. “Barclay showed me how to check the oil.”

Even though Tom has no idea what that that really means.

"Very impressive," Casey says. "But did he have you check the vinegar?"

"Har har." Tom is not going to fall for that one.

Again.

Casey grins at him winningly while Betsy slaps his arm. Judging by her own grin, she’s just as amused. They’re a right pair, those two.

“No, seriously though. Did you have fun? Everything alright with his parents and such?” Casey asks.

“Yeah. We’re taking his sister to see Chris tomorrow.”

"That's a good idea," Casey says. "I basically was sold on this whole magic nonsense when my parents let me get that toad I had in first year."

"Where is Stevi?" Betsy asked. "Haven't thought about him in years."

"I lost him in the tunnels to Hogsmeade." Casey sounds unusually glum considering Stevi was only a useless toad, and not something interesting or useful like a cat.

“I don’t think we need to sell Taylor any more on the idea. When she heard she’s allowed to fly a broomstick and hit balls with a bat she was on board,” Tom says, wincing slightly. The resemblance to Parisa is already quite strong. Then again, now that Parisa’s not there, Hogwarts probably needs one of her.

Betsy grins with no small amount of pride. "Atta girl."

“Are you sure she’s related to Barclay?” Casey asks, grinning.

"They look exactly alike, so if not, then one of them's a hell of a metamorphmagus."

“Are you bringing her around first?” Betsy asks, before Casey can take that theory any further. “Do I get to meet her?”

"Oh, I don't know," Tom says. "I'll ask Barclay in the morning. He hates the Floo, though." The sound of the pipes stops gurgling in the walls. "I should get to bed. It's been a long week."

“I’m sure,” Casey says, while Betsy waggles her eyebrows.

Tom ignores them and leaves them with Charlotte cuddled close to his chest. He did promise Barclay would get to snuggle them both.

Tom does a quick charm on the mattress to warm it toasty and cozy before Barclay gets back. Even though he knows that Barclay is still frustrated with his parents and has seemed to really enjoy being around, he's a little worried that going home again might have convinced him that magic isn't all it's cracked up to be. If Tom can do anything, even so small, to convince him to stay in this world, he will.

Barclay smells clean and a little spicy from their soap by the time he slips into bed next to Tom.

“Mmm,” he hums pleasantly, making Tom duck his face to hide his proud smirk. “Well, this is handy.”

"I thought so." Tom turns towards Barclay and lets Charlotte swim across the blankets to curl up against her favorite human space heater.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” Barclay says. “And for taking Taylor tomorrow.”

"It was my pleasure," Tom says. "Really. And I liked seeing your old bedroom. You had a _lot_ of posters of that Beckham."

“I alway knew I liked them sporty and with strong legs,” Barclay teases, letting a hand drift along Tom’s thing, from his hip to his knee, pulling his leg a bit closer.

Tom sighs, like he’s not pleased.

“You only like me ‘cause I’m fit.”

"It's true," Barclay agrees. He heaves Tom close enough that Charlotte is dislodged with a temperamental hiss. "I uprooted my entire life just to get another glimpse of these thighs."

“They’re very good thighs,” Tom says, swallowing against the lump that forms in his throat at ‘uprooted my entire life’.

“Very good,” Barclay agrees.

“If you wanted to go back and asked me to visit or even not to visit, you know I would, right?” Tom asks. He feels so greedy when it comes to Barclay - his attention, affection, presence - but if he did decide not to bother with magic or Tom, of course he’d let him go.

"Yeah." Barclay doesn't sound nearly so bothered. He leans closer and ghosts a kiss over Tom's temple. "Why would I want to go back?"

Tom shrugs.

“I don’t know. It’s your home.”

"My home is a half-remodeled house in the Devon countryside," Barclay says. "Where I lived as a small enough kid that I can just about remember my dad making dragons out of sparks in the garden to make me laugh. Yeah, like, my family was there once, and they will be again, but it's also a house with magic."

Yeah. Maybe that does mean something. That Barclay felt drawn to go back to where there was still magic. Maybe they recognised something in each other in that bar that’s a little more than skin deep. Maybe that’s why Tom stayed when he couldn’t figure out if Barclay was a squib or a wizard playing at being a Muggle.

"Does it really matter why you stayed?" Barclay whispers. "Or does it matter that you did?"

_You’re cheating_ , Tom thinks, but nuzzles his nose into Barclay’s cheek, angling his head for a kiss.

Probably it doesn’t matter much. It’s more important that it led them here, into bed together again, even if under very different circumstances.

Barclay's hand is warm and sure as it caresses across the small of Tom's back to bridge the last of the gap between them. Charlotte makes an indignant noise, ousted from cuddles by _two_ couples of her formerly-favorite people, and she digs claws into Tom's hip as he she climbs over him and out of the bed.

She’ll get over it. She’s a cat. They’re not so good at grudges as they are momentary disdain.

Tom shifts his hips and torso a bit more onto the side so it’s easier for him to curl into Barclay as their lips smack together lazily. With the mattress warmed up and Barclay so close everything is warm and comfortable and honestly making Tom sleepy.

He shifts up closer to Barclay again, and his intentions are honestly innocent -- really they are -- but now he can feel that Barclay is half-hard under his pants, and he smells so good after his shower. Barclay's hands run soft over Tom, one still at the small of his back but moving lower and lower towards his bum in a way that makes Tom shivery. The other is still measuring out Tom's thigh.

Sleep very quickly becomes the furthest thing from his mind when Barclay’s touching him like that. Really, what is there to do but touch Barclay back? Feel the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his arms and _god_ does Barclay know, can he _tell_ exactly how much Tom likes that?

Probably.

All it does is make Tom want to think about it more, to take up Barclay’s space physically _and_ mentally.

"You're playing dirty," Barclay murmurs.

"Was that a pun?"

"No," Barclay says. "And yes. I guess."

“You like it,” Tom says and keeps Barclay from replying with another kiss. It’s a thing to keep in the back of his mind - trying to see just how hot and bothered he could get Barclay just by thinking at him but all he wants now, really, is to be closer.

Barclay hitches Tom's leg up over his hip. "What d'you want?"

“Can’t you tell?” Tom grins.

“Not when your thoughts are all over the place like that.”

"Are they?" Tom's surprised: all he can think is _Barclay, Barclay, Barclay_.

"Mmm," Barclay hums. "Can't seem to land on one thing... my mouth, my hands, my arse. You're everywhere."

Oh.

Tom can feel the flush light up his cheeks and the back of his neck in something that’s part embarrassment and part... not. He can hardly be blamed for admiring all of Barclay.

“Well, what do you want?” Tom asks in return. He’ll probably be happy with whatever Barclay wants to give him.

Barclay looks shy even as he rubs a confident hand over the front of Tom's pants. "I want to keep kissing you."

“Good plan. I like that plan,” Tom agrees. He can’t help but tilt his hips into Barclay’s touch at the same time as he’s leaning for another kiss though. It all feels rather more than just nice.

Barclay's tongue licks right into Tom's mouth -- it's not shy even if his words had been.

There’s a confidence to the way Barclay moves and touches him that sort of makes Tom want to roll over onto his back and let Barclay have at it, but at the same time it sparks that defiance in him that makes him smile against Barclay’s lips and snake a hand between them, slipping it past the waistline of his tiny pants easily.

It seems impossible that it's only been a few weeks since the first -- and last -- time they'd done something like this. Even though Tom's hardly even seen Barclay naked since then, the curve of him is a familiar weight in Tom's hand.

“In a hurry?” Barclay asks, his own hands still separated from Tom’s skin by layers of fabric.

“Just like touching you,” Tom mumbles, concentration more on his hand than what his mouth is doing, even as Barclay pulls him into another kiss.

It's a good kiss, warm and soft and deep, but Tom is mesmerized by the feel of Barclay getting harder still under his palm, the skin there softer than any kiss could be. It's a common contradiction but it's one Tom loves.

Barclay remains remarkably still and focussed on their kiss, even as Tom starts moving his hand, jacking Barclay slowly and swiping at the head with his thumb. It does make Tom wonder what this would be like if he could peer inside Barclay’s head.

Then again, it’s not like he needs to, with the way that Barclay hums happily and pulls To closer with his hands on Tom’s bum.

His mouth frees from Tom's with a wet, dirty suck and before Tom can whine, it's on his neck, kissing over the vein there to feel Tom's pulse rising.

“Help me out of my clothes?” Tom suggests. It’s not that he’s wearing all that much, but faced with the possibility of feeling more of Barclay’s skin against his own, less clothing is always preferable.

Barclay mumbles something indistinct and then his big hands ease Tom's pants down over the little curve of his bum.

In return, Tom pulls his hand away from Barclay’s cock for the few seconds it takes him to push Barclay’s underwear down over his thighs.

It only takes a few months of wriggling beneath the blankets to get their pants down over their knees and off, lost somewhere at the foot of a bed that seems less "toasty warm" and more blazing hot now, just enough to bring up a thin sheen of sweat over Tom's skin.

It sort of defeats the purpose of the shower Barclay just had but on the other hand Tom sort of likes their little heated cocoon.

Barclay rubs the callused side of his thumb over the sensitive silvery bowtruckle scar on Tom's hip.

None of Tom’s other scars from falls and scrapes over the years are as sensitive as that one, but for some reason, just the slight touch of Barclay’s thumb makes him shiver and bite his lip against a gasp.

"You should see your face whenever I touch you here," Barclay whispers. "Your eyes look like you're getting fucked, not just having a hand on your hip."

“You don’t even know what I look like getting fucked,” Tom whispers back, bite sadly absent from his words because it does feel a bit like that. It’s the same kind of intensity at least, as if the scarred skin on his hip is as sensitive as the soft patch of skin behind his balls or that even more sensitive place inside him.

Barclay's eyes darken with some mischief. "You dream about it sometimes. I can picture it."

“Thought you said my dreams were too confusing too see,” Tom says, gasping for real this time when Barclay brushes his thumb over the scar again.

“Not these ones,” Barclay whispers, tweaking the skin between his fingers lightly. “What would happen if I put my mouth here?”

Tom's breath catches in his chest and his heart trip-hammers. "Dunno." He licks his lip, swallows. "You can try it."

Barclay doesn’t answer, but sits up, blanket falling off his shoulder and revealing their skin and then down and over Tom’s hip, pressing first a dry kiss to where his thumb has just been and then opening his mouth around the scar, his tongue wet and hot as it drags over it.

Sparks explode behind Tom's eyes, like this is some kind of wandless magic that Barclay's figured out all on his own.

“Oh,” Barclay breathes, breath teasing the dampened patch of skin. “You do really like that.”

"Dunno why," Tom pants. "'S'just a hip. But -- "

"Doesn't matter why you like it," Barclay says. "It's enough that you do."

“Yeah, sure, just-- do it again, will you?” Tom says, voice a bit tight with how quickly the desire has started coiling up in his gut.

Barclay's tongue drags over the silver line of the scar and then -- his teeth scrape the line, lightly, testing, dark eyes staring up at Tom through the dim light of the room.

There’s something to be said for knowing that Barclay probably wouldn’t need to see or hear Tom’s reaction to know exactly how much he likes it. It makes it a bit easier to gasp and turn his head into the sheets, clamping his teeth down on the fabric.

Barclay's hand wraps around Tom's cock and pumps once, slowly.

Tom whines and shakes his head, not because he wants Barclay to stop but because he’s having a hard time processing that this - just a hand on his cock and a finger or lips on a patch of his skin - could unravel him this well this quickly.

"D'you think you could come just like this?" Barclay asks. His voice is still soft and smoky, but it's definitely curiosity more than dirty-talk.

“Maybe,” Tom says. “Definitely if you keep your hand back on my cock.”

Barclay grins at that, waggles, his eyebrows, and runs the pad of his thumb around the sensitive crown of Tom's prick. Tom groans something that might be _unfair_.

Barclay presses another kiss to Tom’s scar before settling down onto the sheets again, face level with Tom’s.

“Hi,” he whispers and Tom grins and has to lean forward to kiss him before he can go on. “Your body’s very interesting.”

"I don't know whether that was a compliment," Tom says back. "I'm not the mind-reader here." He manages to get another hand around Barclay, and if it's a little shaky, then at least Barcs will probably take it as a point of pride.

“Yes,” Barclay says, grinning a bit and leaning in for another kiss. Tom still feels a bit frazzled, but this is easier, this he knows. This he can concentrate on and still work his hand on Barclay to give him back at least a bit of the shaky pleasure shivering through Tom’s veins.

He's definitely going to come first, but that's okay. He can think more clearly now, and he focuses those thoughts on pelting Barclay with sweet, dirty praise about his body and his mouth and his tongue, the size of his cock and width of his hands.

Barclay chuckles against his mouth, their kisses more touches of lips and occasionally tongue than anything more concrete, and puts a hand back on Tom’s hip, brushing over the scar far more slowly than the other one’s working his cock.

Tom groans and drops his head against the pillow. It's just too much effort to hold it up.

The closer his orgasm feels, the more everything else feels like too much effort, and his hand has stopped moving over Barclay’s cock before he’s made a conscious choice to do so, too swept up in the sensations rushing through his body. It’s just as well. Afterwards he’ll just redouble his efforts. Get his mouth back on Barclay’s. Or anywhere else on his skin.

"Come on, babe." Barclay's lips brush Tom's cheek. "I've missed it."

It feels ridiculous and euphoric for Barclay to say that. Missed it? After they’ve only--? And yet, Tom feels like that too, like he’s missed having Barclay touch him and getting to touch Barclay in return.

It's all Tom can do to slur _fuck, merlin_ as he comes. It feels like it goes on for ages and ages, even though Tom's been wanking just about every day in the shower ever since Barclay turned up.

Barclay grins and nuzzles his face into the junction of Tom’s neck and shoulder.

“Merlin?” he murmurs.

Tom hums in reply, riding the last waves of his orgasm before reaching down to get his fingers around Barclay’s prick.

“D’you want a lesson in wizard culture or d’you want to get off?”

Barclay laughs and keeps laughing even as Tom starts working his hand in earnest again. Tom's too satisfied to take it personally, but even so --

"If you laugh every time I try to make you come, I'm gonna develop a complex, you know."

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Barclay grins, rolling over onto his back and pulling Tom’s head down to kiss him with a hand at the back of his neck.

“I just really like you,” Barclay murmurs when their lips smack apart again. “It’s so easy with you.”

Tom settles over Barclay's thighs and gets his other hand around Barclay's dick, too. "I really like you, too."

“Good. ‘s so hard to tell with your hands on my cock and your thoughts all over me,” Barclay teases.

Tom scowls and just jacks Barclay off harder. That'll show him.

He can focus. In fact he can focus his thoughts very intently on getting his mouth where his hands are. Kissing and licking at the crown where his thumbs are swiping through the precome Barclay’s leaking. Opening his mouth and taking Barclay into the back of his throat.

"Now who's unfair." Barclay sounds breathless, ragged. His hands clench tight around Tom's waist.

“Want me to think about something else?” Tom asks, voice low. It’s not leaving him entirely unaffected, the idea of sucking Barclay off, but he did _just_ come and as long as he focusses on how it’d make Barclay feel, on how to make it good for him, it’s not a pressing thing that it makes a small tendril of want curl in his belly.

Barclay shakes his head, his hips working up against Tom's hands. "Please. I mean, don't, please."

“Yeah? You like the thought of me sucking you?” Tom teases, hands working faster now, trying not to let the twitching of Barclay’s hips throw him off his rhythm.

"Obviously," Barclay grunts. His neck stretches long against the pillow and Tom leans down to latch his mouth to the soft spot beneath Barclay's adam's apple.

Tom doesn’t bother with a reply, just keeps his mouth on Barclay’s neck and his thoughts of his mouth on Barclay’s prick with his hands. It’s almost easier now, with some actual skin to lick and suck on.

Barclay groans low and gritty when he comes, messing the space between his belly and Tom's. It doesn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things. They’re both already sweaty.

When Barclay opens his eyes, Tom swipes his fingers through the mess on his belly and pops them in his mouth, just to complete the image. There’s something warm like accomplishment glowing in his chest at the dishevelled state Barclay’s in.

Barclay just smiles and wraps two pleasantly heavy arms around Tom, drawing him down into a cuddle before they get too sticky. "Now why would I want to go back to my lonesome house after something like that? Huh?"

Tom smiles, small and pleased, and presses his face into Barclay’s skin. They cool quickly in the open air and the sleepiness from before hits Tom all at once.

"Hey, I'm tired, but -- " He looks down at Barclay, ready to ask whether he fancies a quick clean-up, but Barclay's brow is furrowed with sleep already. He gives a soft snore through his nose.

Tom grins and shuffles away a bit, groping for his wand to vanish the worst of it before settling back down at Barclay’s side. They can always clean up properly tomorrow morning.

Barclay rolls onto his side again to find a cool spot on the pillow. Tom sets his wand back on the bedside table and spoons around Barclay's back to sleep.


	7. Tom Mann and the Happily Ever After

Barclay’s a little green around the nose when Tom helps him step out of the Floo at Mme. Rosmerta’s in Hogsmeade a couple days after Mrs. Beales had owled Prof. McGonagall about Taylor. He’s got the hand not holding tight to Tom’s laid protectively over his stomach.

“I really don’t like this,” he groans.

“This is probably the wrong moment to offer a butterbeer then?” Tom asks.

Barclay groans again, shaking his head.

“Okay. Just sit down then?” Tom offers, steering Barclay to one of the empty tables.

Barclay collapses into a chair and rubs his face. Ophy hums from the depths of his pocket as though that will help.

“Some water maybe?” Tom asks, keeping a hand on Barclay’s thigh as he sits down next to him.

Barclay shrugs. He turns his face into the side of Tom's neck and breathes deeply. "It's getting better."

“Alright. We can just sit and wait, then,” Tom says. He’s got half a mind to join Ophy’s humming. It _is_ strangely soothing.

Barclay relaxes enough to lift his head and take a look around. The Three Broomsticks is nearly empty, given that it's 9AM on a Wednesday, but it's still a sumptuous sight. It mostly reminds Tom of having firewhisky-flavored burps for a few days, but he supposes that if you haven't gotten soused there with Jake, it's probably pretty nice.

“So this is where you spent your free afternoons when you were in school?” Barclay asks, colour returning to his cheeks.

“Not often. We were only allowed into town on certain weekends, although those did increase as the years went on. Seventh years are allowed a lot more leeway than third years,” Tom says.

"Is this like Diagon Alley?" Barclay asks. "Like, we'll get to the wizarding world through here?"

"No," Tom laughs. "We're already in it, mate. This is full-on wizarding."

“Really? It looks so... normal,” Barclay says.

Tom snorts.

“Well, it’s not a parallel dimension. It’s somewhere in Scotland,” he says.

Barclay looks around in earnest. "So everyone in here's a wizard?"

"Mmm..." Tom looks around too, but more... subtly. "No. That pair over there are hags and that fellow, in the corner, he's a vampire."

Barclay’s eyes bug.

“Are you having me on? Those are real?” he asks.

Tom chuckles.

“What point is there in having you on when you can read my mind?”

"Well, I don't know!" Barclay shrugs. "You could think up the lie and still get me. Maybe. Connor got me sometimes, still. My parents got me for my whole life."

Tom hums contemplatively.

“You weren’t looking for it then,” he says. “And there are ways to hide it, I’m just not trying.”

He turns his head to smudge a kiss on Barclay’s cheek, trying to coax a smile from him. This is supposed to be a good day. An exciting day at least. Tom’s excited to show Barclay Hogwarts, at least. He wants Barclay to be excited too.

"I am excited," Barclay mumbles. "I'm just a bit afraid of vampires, is all. I don't fancy moving to Transylvania."

Tom laughs.

“There are vampires right here in the UK. As you can see. And they don’t generally attack people, don’t worry.”

Barclay covers both sides of his neck with his hands anyway. Tom laughs again and kisses Barclay's warm fingers--then growls under his breath and bites just to make Barclay squeak.

"Oi, you! Behave, my parents are coming."

“Doubt this’d shock them, given that they have children and everything,” Tom quips, laughing at the horrified expression that settles over Barclay’s face.

“Uncalled for,” Barclay complains.

Tom just pinches Barclay's thigh beneath the table. "D'you want that butterbeer now, while we wait?"

“What exactly is a butterbeer?” Barclay asks instead of an answer and Tom gives his thigh a consoling pat and gets up.

“Right. You’ll just have to taste it, won’t you?” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

"Tom Mann, is that you?" Mme. Rosmerta leans over the bar and kisses both of Tom's cheeks. "I thought you up and left us ages ago. What are you doing back?"

“I’d never leave you for good, Rosmerta,” he grins. “How are things? Is Evangeline getting on alright?”

Mme. Rosmerta looks down the bar at a pretty, young brunette who’s serving a pair of old wizards shots of firewhiskey.

“Oh, she’s doing fine,” she says.

"And you?" Tom asks. He grins. "You're looking fine, but are you doing fine as well?"

Mme. Rosmerta smiles at him but rolls her eyes as well, far too used to schoolboy flirting after all these years. Tom supposes they’re all schoolboys to her. Probably she smiles the same way at Harry freaking Potter if he ever comes in.

“I’m doing absolutely fine, love,” she says. “These old bones have got a bit of life in them yet. Now, what can I get you?”

"Two butterbeers, please. I paid back all of my tab, haven't I?"

“Of course you have, you know my policy,” she scoffs, pulling two pints with all the ease of someone who’s been doing it for decades.

"Thank you." Tom always feels just slightly ruffled by Mme. Rosmerta, which is silly for about thirty reasons. But his cheeks still feel hot when he takes the frosty pints back to Barclay.

Barclay looks at him and raises one eyebrow, seeming a bit confused and a bit amused and Tom thinks he probably doesn’t even need to read his thoughts for that. It’s probably all over Tom’s face still.

“So... _what_ is it?” Barclay asks when Tom sits back down and sets one of the pints in front of him.

“Delicious.”

Barclay takes the glass and a tentative sip. When he pulls back, there's a thick mustache of white foam on his lip.

Tom wants to lick it off. But he also wishes he could take a photo and save it forever.

Barclay fumbles for his pocket and pulls out his mobile phone, frowning at it for a moment before his expression clears and he puts it away again.

“I always forget,” he says sheepishly. “It works fine at yours.”

“There’s not that much magic around, with just Casey and me.”

"And me," Barclay protests. "And Charlotte."

"Charlotte isn't magic." Tom is a bit grumpy about it. "She's just a normal exceptionally beautiful cat."

“That’s what she wants you to think,” Barclay says and Tom squints his eyes at him and waits for Barclay to jostle Tom’s shoulder with his own to make sure he really, properly is joking.

Barclay just grins, raises his eyebrows, and slurps another long sip of butterbeer. "This _is_ delicious."

“Told you,” Tom grins.

Barclay hums, pleased, and licks the foam mustache off his lip.

“Is it magical? Will it make me float or something, like those sweets?”

"No, it's just a fizzy beverage." Tom takes another sip. "Not everything we have does magic, even if the people who invented it did."

Barclay nods slowly.

“That makes sense,” he says.

Tom grins and knocks his knee against Barclay's below the table.

“Cor, that's rough!" Connor, clinging onto his mother, looks even greener than Barclay as they pop into existence in the pub's doorway.

Taylor, contrary to both her brothers, is bright-eyed and looking around the pub like she fears she’ll never get to see it again. Mr. Beales sees them first and waves at them jovially before steering the rest of the family over.

“Oooh, what are you drinking?” Taylor asks. “Is it magic?”

"It's magically delicious," Barclay says, and offers her his pint glass.

Taylor grabs it eagerly but glances briefly at her mother, who only smiles indulgently at her.

“Oh, butterbeer,” Mr. Beales sighs and Tom offers up his own glass.

“You’re letting her have beer now?” Connor asks.

“Of course not. There’s no alcohol in it,” Mrs. Beales says, and takes the pint glass from Taylor when she goes to set it down.

"But _is_ there magic beer?" Connor asks. "Barcs, have you had magic beer this whole time you've been gone and not told me?"

"No," Tom says. "But there's magic whiskey."

“There’s magic _whiskey_?” Connor asks, delighted, and grabbing Tom’s glass from his father. “Blegh, caramel.”

Mr. Beales laughs good-naturedly. Taylor pulls a face.

“You’re such a weirdo. Who doesn’t like caramel?”

"Me." Connor tickles her with an impressive viciousness until Mrs. Beales pulls the glass away from Taylor.

“Behave, please,” she says, with all the exhaustion only a parent can project.

Tom waves a hand. "The Three Broomsticks has seen worse behavior."

"I well remember," Mrs. Beales says. She shakes her head. "But I'd like to leave here just once without breaking anything."

As if on cue, there’s the sound of glass shattering.

“That wasn’t us!” Connor says reflexively.

Mrs. Beales pats his arm.

“I know, dear,” she says. “Now, drink up. We’re supposed to be meeting Hagrid soon.”

"That's a weird name," Taylor comments. She drains Barclay's glass.

"I suspect you'll want to avoid mentioning that to him," Mrs. Beales says. "A lot of the names that wizards use are different from what you're used to."

“Tom has a perfectly ordinary name,” Taylor points out.

“Well, Hagrid _is_ his last name, but either way, different cultures have different customs, you know that,” Mrs. Beales says. “You wouldn’t make fun of Rasik for his name.”

Taylor looks properly chastised. "That's true."

"And Tom's middle name is _Ophiuchus_ ," Barclay crows.

“It’s what?” Taylor asks, laughter in her voice.

“Ophiuchus,” Tom says. “It’s certainly no stranger than _Barclay_.”

“If you say so,” Barclay says and pats him on the shoulder consolingly.

Tom is spared having to come up with a good reason to think 'Ophiuchus' is a perfectly good human-name by the arrival of Hagrid, huge and smiling.

“Well, if it isn’t Thomas Mann,” Hagrid greets. “How’s the Quidditch treating you?”

Tom grins up at Hagrid. "Really well, thanks. Casey and Jake and James say hello."

“Good lads. Chris hasn’t been up in a while. The Menagerie keeping him busy?” Hagrid asks.

“Yeah, last we spoke,” Tom says.

“Oh, where’re my manners,” Hagrid then says and turns to the rest of the company. “Rubeus Hagrid, at your service.”

Taylor, Connor, and Barclay stare up at him with their jaws agape.

“Hagrid,” Mr. Beales says, warmly. “It’s been a while, you probably don’t remember. Edward Beales.”

Hagrid dwarfs even Mr. Beales, who is not a small man. He looks it, though, when Hagrid lifts him up in a rough hug. "I thought you'd disappeared for good! Worried about you lot, didn't I, when your boy didn't turn up at Hogwarts."

The look on Mrs. Beales’ face is softer than Tom has ever seen it be directed at anyone who’s not one of her children. Granted, Tom hasn’t seen her look at many people other than himself, but he gets the feeling she reserves this kind of affection for a select few people.

He can’t even imagine what it must be like to come back here after leaving the way they did.

“And Donna,” Hagrid says, releasing Mr. Beales and turning to give Mrs. Beales a far more careful hug.

"Taken the muggle world by storm, have you? Brilliant, this one," he adds as an aside to her dumbfounded children.

“You’re really tall,” Taylor says, blushing as soon as the words have left her mouth, Barclay elbowing her in the one side, Connor the other.

Hagrid only laughs.

“A lot taller than you at least,” he says. “Now, what do you say I take you up to the castle?”

The Beales children nod in one movement like puppets. Tom grins at Barclay and proffers his elbow like a gentleman.

Barclay takes it without much thought, still seeming a little mesmerised by Hagrid’s appearance.

“You coming back later, Rubeus?” Mme. Rosmerta calls after them as they make their way to the door.

“‘course I am!” Hagrid grins at her.

“You’d better. You still owe me from last week,” she threatens, but there’s a wide grin on her face as well that seems a little less formidable than Tom remembers it to be when she was after them to pay their tabs back in their school days.

Then again, Hagrid is more reliable than James or Jake.

“Do you teach at the school, Mr. Hagrid?” Taylor asks, trying to disguise the fact that she’s sticking close to her mother by sticking her hands into the pockets of her jeans casually as they walk.

“I do,” Hagrid says, smiling at her over his shoulder. “Care of Magical Creatures. I’m also the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

"Did you teach Chris, then?" Barclay blurts. "I go to the Menagerie almost every day when Tom's at Quidditch practice."

As if the mention reminded him, Barclay checks his breast pocket, making sure Ophiuchus is alright. As per usual, he's asleep.

“‘course I did! Chris Leonard has always had a special hand for animals. Doesn’t discriminate either. He was always interested in all of them, not just the fluffy, pretty ones,” Hagrid says and then gives Tom’s shoulder a shove that jostles him a bit.

“You living with someone now, Mann? The Prophet’s not got wind of that yet!”

"I've always been living with someone," Tom says. "Charlotte. And Casey, but y'know. Casey's just my pet."

Barclay and Taylor giggle to themselves a bit, while Hagrid winks at Tom like he’s being particularly sly. Mrs. Beales’ lips are a little pursed.

"Are all wizards so tall?" Connor asks before his mother can stop him. "Did Tom just get unlucky?"

“Oi!” Tom says, while Barclay pats his arm consolingly.

“Nah,” Hagrid says. “I’ve got giant blood in me. A bit, at least.”

The Beales kids all fall silent at that again, staring at Hagrid like a marvel as he leads them up the lane to the Hogwarts grounds. Tom wants to point out all of the places in Hogsmeade he frequented as a student, but since some of them aren't strictly by the rules, he'll wait.

The Beales kids look around them with wonder sparkling in their eyes anyway, while Mr. Beales puts an arm around his wife, nostalgia clear on both of their faces. They probably had their first date here, like most Hogwarts kids do. Tom wonders how much they recognise.

Instead of the crooked elbows, Tom slides his hand along Barclay's forearm until their fingers can intertwine. It feels good to be able to share this.

“It’s very picturesque,” Barclay murmurs, leaning closer to Tom. There’s a sort of hush over the group, each of them lost in their own thoughts and Barclay seems as unwilling to disturb it as Tom feels.

Tom nods. "It's a bit out of the way. When it's all you've got for seven years it gets a little repetitive, but it's never really boring."

“I can’t imagine anything involving magical boarding school being boring,” Barclay says.

“That’s ‘cause you’ve never sat through History of Magic,” Tom counters.

Barclay just shakes his head, squeezes Tom's hand. The path on either side of them is flowering with heather and highland plants that Tom's sure Professor Longbottom could name in his sleep. It _is_ picturesque.

“What’s that up there?” Taylor asks, pointing at the leftovers of the Shrieking Shack and the War Monument that holds all the names of the ones fallen in the Battle of Hogwarts.

Tom swallows.

“Um, people used to think the shack was haunted. It’s a bit of a long story. It’s a war memorial now,” he explains.

Hagrid bows his head as they pass, but Barclay is watching his parents' reaction.

“It’s... not haunted?” Mr. Beales finally asks, when they’re practically past it. Mrs. Beales’ face is tight and unreadable.

“No. Never was,” Hagrid says, face drawn with emotion. Tom sort of wants to offer him a hug. He can’t imagine what it must be like to have lost people in not one but both of the Voldemort Wars.

Once they get past the edge of Hogsmeade, the great stone walls of the castle come into view and Tom has to shield his eyes from the sunshine's bright glare off the calm lake.

Mrs. Beales gives a tiny little sigh.

“It hasn’t changed,” she says.

“It’s been rebuilt,” Hagrid says.

"How much?"

"All of it," Hagrid says. "Just safer that way."

The air is thick with their awkwardness and discomfort for a bit, but when they come into the Hogwarts grounds proper, Taylor breathes a soft “wow”, breaking them all out of it. It’s difficult to look at the castle and be unaffected - be it by awe or nostalgia. The lake is glittering in the sun and Tom’s never sure if the way the grass on the castle grounds just seems so _lush_ isn’t at least partially due to the magic that’s practically oozing all over the place.

“You went to school _here_?” Taylor asks, jealousy and disbelief equally heavy in her voice.

“Seven years, yeah,” Tom says with a little chuckle.

A long purple tentacle lifts lazily from the lake, disturbing its calm surface with a rush of white ripples. Tom waves back, smiling, even as Barclay makes a little shocked noise and squeezes Tom's fingers hard.

“He’s harmless as long as you leave him be. The merpeople are a lot quicker to anger,” Tom says, grinning at Barclay.

He does enjoy that look on Barclay’s face when he learns something new about the world that Tom grew up in - something that he previously probably thought impossible. Tom hopes he won’t run out of things too soon.

"How'd you know it's a he?" is all Barclay asks, though, and Tom laughs.

"My common room for six of the years I was here was in the dungeons under the lake," he says. "Window looked right out under the water. I got to know Squiddy pretty well."

Barclay gives him a long askance look.

"Not like _that_."

Barclay waggles his eyebrows and laughs a little when Tom bumps their shoulders together in reproach.

“Your common room was under the water?” Taylor asks. “Are they all?”

“No, love,” Mrs. Beales says. “Two of them are up in towers and the third one’s by the kitchen.”

“Neat. Midnight snacks,” Connor comments. Mr. Beales grins at him.

"Now don't go encouragin' 'em to break the rules already," Hagrid says gruffly. His eyes are wet and nose a little pink.

“Are students not allowed in the kitchens?” Taylor asks, a little timidly.

“Not technically, they’re not. Not allowed out of their Houses after hours either,” Hagrid says, smiling down at Taylor from behind his impressive beard.

Tom strokes his chin absently. Seeing Hagrid always makes him want to grow a beard.

"You could pull it off," Barclay murmurs. "I think you'd look majestic."

“Majestic?” Tom asks, preening a bit. He’s never been called majestic before.

Barclay nods. "Definitely. Dunno how Charlotte will take it if she doesn't have the best fur in the flat, though."

“Badly, probably,” Tom grins. “I’m always too lazy to do it, though.”

“Can’t you just... magic it?” Barclay asks.

“Like this you mean?” Tom asks and points his wand at his face, sprouting a beard that comes down far enough to touch his chest. “I can, but there’s no fun in that. And I’ll have to take care of it and all. I never got the hang of eating around one either.”

Barclay cackles loudly enough that his whole family, Hagrid, and a parliament of owls on a branch overhead all stop and look down at him and Tom.

Tom quickly fixes his face.

“You’re mean,” Tom says and if it weren’t for Barclay’s parents right there, he’d hex a beard onto Barclay’s face. It’d serve him right.

Although it might look good. Given Barclay's face, it probably would, because he just has a face that looks good.

"Tom," Hagrid sighs, "Let's not lead the young'uns astray, alright? Can you manage for a few hours?" He shakes his head. "Always blamed it on Sims and Graham but it were you all along, weren't it."

Tom laughs and beams up at Hagrid.

“I’m absolutely positive I have no idea what you mean, Professor. Headboy and all, I was.”

“Yes, yes. Slytherin golden boy. I remember,” Hagrid says, eyes twinkling in amusement. Given his connection to Harry Potter and his lot, Tom has always been a bit surprised by how Hagrid treats Slytherin students with just as much affection as all the others.

"Tell Taylor and Connor," Tom says. "Tell them what a brilliant student and wizard I was. They don't seem to believe me, for some reason."

“Well, you’ve not done much other than grow a beard,” Taylor points out.

Hagrid booms a laugh.

“I like this one. She’s a feisty one.”

“Well, what would you like me to do? I can grow you a beard, if you want,” Tom suggests.

Taylor ducks behind her mother. "Don't you dare! Mum! Tell Barclay's boyfriend I don't want a beard!"

“I don’t know,” Connor says before Mrs. Beales can turn more than one delicately arched eyebrow at Tom as if she’s just daring him to try and see what happens if he turns magic on one of her children. “I think you’d look rather fetching in one.”

He jumps over to dig his fingers into her side, making her squeal a laugh and try and twist out of his way, swatting at his hands to get him to stop.

"Alright, alright," Mrs. Beales says, "Separate, you two. We're guests here. Be on your best behavior."

“Yes, Mum,” Taylor says, eyeroll evident even in her voice the way only a teenager can make it. Connor doesn’t say anything but lifts his hands in mock surrender and then throws an arm around his sister’s shoulders instead, the two of them sharing a grin and then going back to staring at their surroundings.

The castle drawbridge lowers when Hagrid raises his pink umbrella. A few more owls who'd been resting in the crenellation over the door titter with great perturbation before tucking their big eyes back under their wings to sleep.

There are a few around the courtyard inside, on the way to the library or having taken to studying outside. Tom can’t help the wave of sweet nostalgia at the black cloaks and green, blue, yellow, and red ties. He knows some people aren’t fans of school, but he’s always had a great time here.

"Oi, there's the lad we're looking for," Hagrid mutters. "Bibby! Reece Bibby, come over here!"

An especially scrawny looking blond boy with a neat Ravenclaw tie looks up from where he’s sitting with a group of students and then comes over to meet them.

"Ay up, Professor." His Northern accent is so thick it's nearly unintelligible, but his face is kind enough. At the sight of him, Taylor's gone over blushy pink. "How're the nifflets coming today?"

Hagrid's massive chest puffs. "We've had a litter of ten new nifflers at the weekend," he explains to Barclay and the Bealeses. "They're active as billywigs, but dead cute. Bibby, this is Taylor Beales, she's a prospective student. Can you give 'em a tour? I have to go feed the thestrals."

“Sure, no problem. Are you going to see Professor McGonagall first?” Reece Bibby turns to Taylor to ask.

“Um,” Taylor says, glancing at her mother.

“That would be best, I think,” Mrs. Beales says and Tom watches Connor and Barclay exchange a look that promises merciless teasing at the next opportune moment.

Hagrid claps Reece Bibby on the shoulder with a hand that nearly sends Reece's knees crumpling to the cobblestone walkway. "Good lad. Bibby here's our new head boy. He could give Tom a run for his money in the brains department."

“Well, it’d get boring around here if you were all still missing me,” Tom quips and grins at Reece Bibby.

“Are you Tom Mann from the Magpies?” Reece Bibby asks, eyes scanning Tom’s face.

"I am, yeah," Tom says. The younger Bealeses seem impressed that he's being recognised, while Barclay seems almost... smug.

"Your feint last match was sick. Can I get your autograph? My mates'll never believe I showed you around today. Or, well, not you. You know where everything is, of course," Reece says.

Tom grins. "Yeah, sure, mate. Got a quill?"

Reece pulls out a slightly ruffled looking quill and a scrap piece of parchment and Tom signs his name quickly.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Hagrid says and nods at Mr. and Mrs. Beales. “Good to see you two again. And good luck to you, kid.”

Taylor smiles at him, and gives a cheerful wave as he steps away to go see to the Thestrals.

"Right," says Reece Bibby. "Er -- I'm Head Boy. Are you, like, how much background d'you need about what Hogwarts is? It's a school. You can see that. For wizards. Er."

Taylor giggles a little.

“Don’t worry yourself, lad,” Mr. Beales says. “I think it’s easiest if we go see the headmistress and if anything comes up we’ll ask. If Taylor ever wants to read Hogwarts: A History, she can do that.”

Reece fluffs his blond hair. "Right. Alright, follow me. The staircases are being a mite moody this week so keep close."

“They move,” Tom chimes in at Barclay, Connor and Taylor’s confused faces.

Connor looks impressed. "That's a good trick. I approve. Taylor, learn to do that, and then teach me."

“They just move by themselves,” Reece says. “Though I suppose you could learn how to make your stairs do it at home if you really wanted to. It’s a bit of a nuisance though if I’m honest.”

"That's what I'm looking for." Connor grins at Reece.

"Are you looking to come 'ere, too?"

"Nah," Connor says. "I'm too old. Set in my ways. Pudding and Hollyoaks and that's about the excitement I can handle. It's just Taylor; she's brilliant anyway."

“Maybe I’ll see you in Ravenclaw then,” Reece turns to Taylor to smile at her.

“Oi!” Tom interjects, for the sake of it more than anything.

"Ravenclaw is where I was," Mrs. Beales says to Reece, her eyes kind. "We'd be happy to see her there."

"You're a witch?" Reece's eyebrows meet in the middle, but he doesn't actually ask _so why is she just starting here now?_ even though it's written on his face. "Who was Head of House when you were here?"

“Professor Flitwick,” Mrs. Beales says. “Is he ... not anymore?”

“No, he retired a while go. Professor Chang took over for him. She’s young but really brilliant. She and Professor Longbottom were both here during... The War,” Reece explains.

Mrs. Beales nods, her jaw ticking. "Were there a lot of professors replaced because of...?"

“Only Professor Snape, I think. Although a lot of the professors that were here then have retired since. Professor Flitwick, like I said, and Professor Sprout just retired from her Head position last year. Professor McGonagall says she’ll give up Transfiguration every year but she never does,” Reece grins.

Mr. Beales shakes his head. "That woman's incredible. She must have figured out how to fit more than 24 hours in a day."

"Can wizards do that?" Barclay asks Tom.

"No," Tom says. "Well, I can't, at least."

“Well, I suppose it’d only make you age faster than everyone else anyway,” Barclay says.

Reece leads them over the courtyard and into the castle, which has all of them squinting for a moment as they try to adjust to the suddenly lower lighting.

“Is there a House you want to get into?” Reece asks Taylor.

She shrugs. "I don't know anything about them, really. What House are you in, again? Raven's Foot?"

“Ravenclaw,” Reece corrects with a grin. “It’s not that important anyway. Mostly it just determines who you live with and go to classes with.”

“Right. Not that important,” Taylor says. “It just decides sort of everything.”

"It doesn't," Tom interjects -- more for her parents than for Taylor. "Just because you have one type of personality when you start school here doesn't mean you have to be any sort of way forever."

“Personality?” Taylor asks. “What, am I going to have to fill out a questionnaire or something?”

“Er, no, the Sorting Hat sorts you,” Reece says.

“Hat?” Connor asks.

“Yeah, they put a talking hat on your head that can read your mind and decides which House you fit best based on that,” Tom says.

Connor, Taylor and Barclay all look at him like they think he’s pulling their leg.

“It’s not, like, a definition of your character though. I mean, we only have four Houses,” Reece adds.

"A talking hat," Barclay says, because apparently that is the most important part of this explanation. "Of all the things that wizards could have made magic, you made a talking hat."

“Well it has to go on your head,” Tom points out. “What should we have used? A helmet?”

"Why does it have to go on your head?" Taylor asks. "Why can't your House be picked by someone like Barclay?"

"Someone like Barclay?" Reece asks.

"He can read minds," Taylor tells him, blushing again.

“You can?” Reece looks suitably impressed.

“It’s not really like what Barclay does,” Tom says to Taylor. “It’s more that the Hat reads what you... want. From life. Or school, at least. I don’t know exactly.”

Taylor's eyes goggle. "What if I don't know yet?"

“No one knows yet. People get sorted when they’re _eleven_ usually,” Tom says. “It’s more like your housemates are similar to you so it’ll be easier to get along with them. Doesn’t mean you can’t make friends with anyone you want or be whoever you want. It’s not a restriction.”

Reece leads them deftly around a vast open hole in the floor where one staircase appears to have fucked off to somewhere else for a while. The portraits on the walls alongside keep careful watch, some even using sparkling magical opera glasses.

Momentarily distracted by their surroundings, Taylor and her brothers fall silent, looking around with wide, curious eyes. Tom follows looks up at the paintings and armors and tries to imagine what it must be like to see it all for the first time. Then again, even when he’d seen Hogwarts for the first time, he was already used to moving paintings and suits of armor. Probably this is a bit like seeing the inside of a car was for him.

"Look at that weird old bloke," Connor mutters to Taylor and Barclay, pointing up at a portrait of a knight wandering into things and falling over, over and over again. "Why would someone paint that?"

"Excuse me, young man!" the portrait sounds peevish. "I am Sir Cadogan of the Knights of the Round Table! I defeated the Wyvern at Wye! Why should anyone want to paint _you_?"

The Taylor flinches a bit with the surprise of hearing him speak and Barclay turns wide eyes to Tom like he needs confirmation that he’s not just hearing things but Connor only sighs and shakes his head.

“Of course the bloody paintings talk,” he mumbles to himself.

"Watch your language!" Sir Cadogan barks. His visor falls in front of his eyes again and he goes careening into a tree.

“Watch where you’re going,” Connor answers cheerfully.

“Connor,” Mrs. Beales says with that warning tone that only parents seem to truly master.

Tom just snorts. Jake used to threaten to paint a portrait of a maze and leave it next to Cadogan's frame just to serve him right for being such a tattle. He tells the Bealeses this as Reece leads them up one more winding corridor to the Headmistress' office.

The whole party comes to a halt in front of the gargoyle, Reece stepping forward to murmur the password into its ear. The gargoyle inclines its head and then steps aside, revealing the winding staircase behind it.

"Ooh," Mr. Beales says. "Haven't climbed anything like that in a few years, eh?"

"No," Mrs. Beales agrees. "One thing Muggles definitely got right was the invention of the lift."

"Don't worry, it moves," Reece says knowingly, and for the first time he smiles. It makes his face look nicer -- softer. Barclay looks at Taylor and frowns as only an older brother can.

The staircase somehow knows when they’re all on it, because the gargoyle steps back into place as soon as Tom steps onto the lowest step and then corkscrews upwards until Reece steps off and opens the large oaken doors that lead into the office.

“Always with the spinning,” Connor complains.

"Just wait," Barclay warns him. "It's even worse when there aren't stairs under you. Tom can just zap us from place to place and it's horrible."

“What, like Star Trek?” Connor asks, while Taylor breathes an impressed “cool”.

“You have to be seventeen to be allowed to learn to Apparate,” Tom says immediately. “Sorry.”

"I'll be seventeen someday," Taylor says, her chin out again. She crosses her arms and looks at Tom with a challenge in her eyes.

She definitely needs to meet Parisa.

“No you won’t,” Barclay protests. “You’ll stay a tiny innocent child forever.”

Mr. Beales laughs and claps a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work out,” he says.

Barclay harrumphs and Tom squeezes his hand.

"Didn't you write the headmistress yesterday?" Taylor asks her mother. She wanders over to the desk to inspect the cat napping atop it; she runs her hand down its back and looks at Mrs. Beales.

Tom holds his tongue.

“Um,” Reece says, eyes wide and cheeks a bit flushed.

“Taylor, dear,” Mrs. Beales starts, reaching out a hand to signal her daughter to step back.

“What?” Taylor asks, scritching behind the cat’s ear.

The cat's eyes open. It yawns, tongue licking lazily behind its long teeth.

And then with a leap from the desktop, it transforms into the headmistress of Hogwarts.

Taylor’s eyes go wide and she seems to flicker between embarrassment and awe for a moment.

“How old do I have to be to do that?” she then asks.

Professor McGonagall claps and looks delighted. "I'm going to guess Gryffindor straight off. You must be Taylor."

“Er, yes. Professor,” Taylor says, adding the title after a beat of hesitation.

“Wonderful. Come, have a seat,” she says, rounding the table and waving her hand around, making a large arm chair pull up behind the desk and three smaller ones pull up where they’re standing. Taylor shoots her parents a look before sitting down in one of them, Mr. and Mrs. Beales sitting in the other two.

Barclay, Connor, Reece, and Tom hover towards the back. Tom's been in this office before, since he was Head Boy and had meetings with McGonagall and Jade Thirlwall, the Head Girl his year, fairly often.

“Well, Ms. Beales. Have your parents explained what Hogwarts is and how it works?” McGonagall asks once she’s sat down, looking at Taylor over the rim of her classes.

“Er, a school? For wizards?” Taylor answers.

“And witches,” McGonagall adds. “Right. Your mother has a few concerns about you being here that we’re going to address in a moment, but more important is - do you want to study here?”

"Yes," Taylor says immediately, and her voice is so desperate that Tom doesn't need to be a legilimens like Barclay to know she's telling the truth. "More than anything."

McGonagall’s smile is wide and kind.

“Well. That’s settled then,” she says and turns towards Mr. and Mrs. Beales.

“Now, Donna. Whatever can I do to convince you that Taylor is perfectly safe here with us?”

Mrs. Beales is looking at the portrait of Dumbledore on the wall. Unlike the other paintings, he isn't moving -- just napping quietly with his glasses low on his nose. Tom has never seen him awake. "Just tell me the truth."

McGonagall seems to consider it for a while before she heaves a sigh that sounds so heavy Tom’s a bit surprised he can’t hear it fall to the floor.

“War was nasty. But we’re better for it. Hogwarts is a better and safer place now than it was when you both went to school here,” she says.

"Does it -- do you think it will start again?"

“No,” she says immediately, sharply. “The Dark Lord is dead and everyone who still supports him locked up and under very close supervision, but this time we’re not pretending we can lock the problem away. Ask Mr. Mann here, or Mr. Bibby. We’re teaching them about it, so they won’t make the same mistakes.”

Tom and Reece exchange looks.

"We get Defence Against the Dark Arts classes," Reece offers. "The professor's a former Auror."

"And all the students look out for each other," Tom adds.

“The House rivalries are practically friendly by now, except the few _very_ pureblood students we get in each House. It’s not uncommon for a Hufflepuff to contest a Slytherin point deduction or vice versa,” McGonagall adds.

"Because Slytherin never deserves one," Tom cuts in. "Ever."

McGonagall gives Tom a look that would curdle butterbeer.

“And here I’d hoped you’d grown up somewhat, Mr. Mann,” she says. Tom’s never been able to suss out 100% when McGonagall was joking and when she was deathly serious.

"Er," Tom says. "Nope. I stopped growing in fifth year, you know."

McGonagall hums thoughtfully. “Are you quite certain it wasn’t earlier than that?”

Tom pouts as all of the Bealeses -- and Reece Bibby -- laugh.

"Ah, well. It helped your Seeking, I suppose." McGonagall polishes her glasses on her robes and then faces Taylor again.

“Well, Ms. Beales. Since your parents’ worries seem to have been assuaged a bit, what say you we sort you into a House and then see about getting you a timetable? You’ve missed the first three years, I’m afraid, but you should be able to catch up at least the first one over the summer. It’d be easiest to have you join the second years - or third, if you’re a very quick study - in the fall,” she explains.

Taylor swallows but nods surely.

"Has anyone explained how Sorting works?"

"Er," Taylor says. "Talking hat?"

McGonagall actually laughs. "Essentially, yes. There are four Houses here at Hogwarts; each has one primary trait that the Hat senses and places you with for your best comfort. Tom, as you may have guessed, was in Slytherin House, which is known for its ambition. Reece, our Head Boy, is a Ravenclaw because of his cleverness. Your mother was also in that House. Your father, Hufflepuff, for loyalty."

"What's Gryffindor?" Taylor asks curiously.

“Bravery,” McGonagall says, voice heavy with pride for her former House even now. She’s an exceedingly fair headmistress but everyone knows she’ll always be a Gryffindor at heart.

Barclay squeezes Tom's hand again.

Maybe Barclay would have been Gryffindor, too, Tom thinks. He left his whole life on a hunch.

“Sounds alright,” Taylor says and McGonagall waves her wand with a smile, making the hat float down from somewhere behind her and directing it to sit on Taylor’s head.

Taylor screws her eyes shut, hands in fists, and thinks hard at the Hat. Tom grins, because he's seen enough Sortings to know that it rarely matters. Sometimes -- but rarely.

It’s not an instant decision, but it’s not the longest one Tom’s seen either, only a minute or two until the hat proclaims her a Gryffindor. Taylor opens her eyes and beams.

Mrs. Beales rushes over to hug her daughter. "Congratulations, honey."

Barclay and Connor go hug Taylor, too, but Tom can't help noticing that Barclay is eyeing the hat with longing.

Tom grabs his hand and tilts his head in a silent question but Barclay shakes his head at him and smiles. Tom sort of wants to grab the hat and shove it on his head, but it has to be Barclay’s decision.

Professor McGonagall looks to Reece. "Mr. Bibby, would you mind showing Ms. Beales and her parents to the classrooms and toward Gryffindor Tower? I believe I need to speak to Mr. Mann and -- Barclay, is it?"

“Um, yes, m’am,” Barclay says, hand going a bit tight over Tom’s. Tom tries really hard to tamp down his grin.

Mrs. Beales hovers a bit, but Taylor pulls at her arm.

“C’mon, mum. Tom knows his way around, I’m sure they’ll catch up with us.”

Connor hesitates, but Mrs. Beales grasps his elbow rather firmly and pulls him along with their group. The heavy door shuts. The staircase makes a soft chugging sound beyond the wood.

“I don’t... quite understand,” Barclay starts carefully. McGonagall sits back down and motions at the chairs opposite her, so Tom sits down, pulling Barclay with him. He lets go of his hand when they’ve sat down and thinks about holding it instead.

"Mr. Beales, what you can do -- reading thoughts -- is an extremely difficult bit of magic," McGonagall says. She opens a tin of biscuits. "It's important to get it under control. Can you imagine the trouble if you were to read, for example, state secrets? While the school is quite safe, I'm afraid I can't say the same for the whole world."

“When would I ever even have the opportunity to read state secrets?” Barclay asks, baffled.

"Should you pass by Downing Street," McGonagall says. "Or ride the tube in London. Or accompany Tom to the Ministry."

“It’s not like that, though. I don’t get clear thoughts unless I concentrate really hard,” Barclay says. “It’s more like really good intuition.”

"If you don't mind, I'd still like to work with you," McGonagall says. "Perhaps while Tom is at Quidditch. And of course, if you intend to live in the Wizarding world longterm, we should qualify you with some basic essential spells. Have you a wand yet?"

Barclay seems a little overwhelmed and Tom doesn’t know whether he’s meant to try and keep his thoughts to himself or try to project something comforting, which is probably not helping either way.

“I-- no, I haven’t got one. Can I? I mean, learn? Like Taylor?” Barclay asks.

Tom moves away from the portraits and finally perches on the arm of Barclay's chair, just to be nearer. "I'd be happy to tutor him at home."

"That's very kind, Tom," McGonagall says. "But I do remember what happened when you tried to teach Graham to set his own shinbone."

Tom winces and Barclay looks torn between wanting to ask for details and not wanting to know any details at all.

“I don’t mind coming to school - or whatever else there is,” Barclay says, looking up at Tom to smile at him before looking back at McGonagall.

“I would like to learn at least a bit. Not like Taylor, but I don’t want to not learn either,” he says.

"What if, on days when we don't work on your Occlumency, you were to work with Hagrid, purely at your own pace? He got his qualifications later in life as well," she explains. "And Mr. Leonard has owled and told me that you have an interest in magical creatures."

“I’ve been visiting him at the Menagerie lots. They’re wicked,” Barclay says, smiling a little shyly like he’s not entirely sure he’s supposed to admit that. “I’d love to learn more about them.”

Professor McGonagall smiles at Barclay with a softer look in her eyes than Tom has ever received directed towards him. Then again, she had to put up with all of his student-years shenanigans. And Barclay is awfully handsome.

"Your experience with the magical world will never be quite so traditional as Mr. Mann's here, but I think you could have a very fulfilling life in our world, if you so choose." Professor McGonagall shakes the biscuit tin at Barclay. "Take a biscuit."

Barclay seems to be a bit taken aback at being offered a biscuit and his gaze jumps up and down between the tin and McGonagall before he reaches out and takes one.

“Are these going to turn my hair pink or something?” he asks.

“No, nothing like that. They’re just really tasty,” McGonagall says, smile somehow both sly and sweet. Barclay hesitates for another second and then takes a bite.

His eyebrows bounce upwards. "These are good, Tom. We should get them and hide them from Casey."

“There’s no hiding things from Casey,” Tom says. “And Professor McGonagall won’t tell me the secret of her biscuits. I’ve been trying for years.”

"They're from Madame Puddifoot's," McGonagall says to Barclay. "If you ask Bedelia for the chocolate bourbons, and she asks if she can substitute them for the special, just say no. The special will give you purple hiccups."

Tom lets his mouth drop open in a show of betrayal.

“You wound me, Professor,” he says, even though of course he’ll benefit from this revelation just as much as Barclay.

"As if the house-elves didn't deliver you baskets of baked goods whenever you asked," she says. "Honestly, Mr. Mann, I'm not a fool."

She stands and holds out her hand to Barclay. "How does Tuesday sound to begin your lessons, Mr. Beales?"

Barclay startles out of his bemused observation of their interaction and wipes the crumbs off his hand on his jeans hurriedly before taking McGonagall’s hand.

“Great, yeah. Thank you,” he says.

She nods, pumps his hand once, and then turns back to her desk. "You may go. I suspect Mr. Mann is itching to show you the Quidditch pitch."

“Thank you, Professor,” Tom says as he stands and hurries Barclay out of the room. McGonagall has nothing but time for her students until that time’s up. Then it’s best to leave her to her affairs, Tom’s learned.

When they turn back as the door shuts behind them, the staircase already beginning to move, the office is empty save the striped cat napping on the desktop below Dumbledore's portrait.

Back in the corridor Barclay grabs both of Tom’s hands and whirls around to grin at him brightly, while the gargoyle steps back into place in front of the stairs behind them.

“I’m going to learn magic,” he says, a bit giddy.

Tom squeezes Barclay's hands and very carefully does not say _you are magic_ , although he can't help thinking it. He knows Barclay hears.

“Yeah, you are,” he says instead and leans in for a quick kiss. He can feel Barclay’s smile even through their pressed-together lips and pulls back soon after.

“Useless,” he mumbles, though it’s affectionate more than anything. “So... do you want me to show you around a bit more?”

"Go ahead and show me the Quidditch pitch," Barclay laughs. "I'm interested to see one, anyhow."

Tom grins and lets go of one of Barclay’s hands, lacing together their fingers of the other two.

“Alright, come along,” he says. He may not have been back in a while but he doubts he’ll ever forget the quickest way to the Quidditch pitch from every part of the castle.

Barclay jogs after him, portraits chastising these rogue adults in their corridors all the way. The sky outdoors is so much brighter than inside the castle that Tom's eyes water.

There’s no practice happening at the pitch currently, but the poles with their hoops attached and the empty stands around them are clearly visible in the bright day anyway.

"Wow," Barclay breathes. "Are those goalposts? They're so high!"

“That’s what the brooms are for,” Tom grins, still pulling Barclay along by the hand.

The figures of a few people down near the team benches become visible once they've run down the first length of stairs.

"Hey, it's your family!" Tom says. "Looks like Reece pawned them off on a Gryffindor."

“How can you tell?” Barclay asks.

“Red tie,” Tom says. “Each House has a colour.”

“Oh. What was yours?”

“Green,” Tom says.

"Like your bed." Barclay's voice is warm and makes Tom's ears feel hot.

“Yep. Got used to it, I suppose,” he says.

Barclay smiles wistfully. "I wonder what my color would have been."

Tom shrugs. "Does it really matter? You are you. Casey had red and I had green and we're still best friends."

“I suppose,” Barclay says. “So you wouldn’t have cared what colour I was? If I’d gone here like you did and we’d met then?”

Tom shakes his head. "Nah. We probably wouldn't have had classes together since you're younger than I am, but I wouldn't have minded."

“Maybe you would have tutored me and we’d’ve snogged in the library,” Barclay grins mischievously.

Tom pecks his lips again. "Harder to get away with that than you'd think. C'mon, let's go see how Taylor's getting on."

Taylor appears to be laughing at whatever the Gryffindor student is telling them. Connor looks similarly engaged and Mr. and Mrs. Beales seem to be hanging back a little. Probably still a bit overwhelmed by being back here. They probably didn’t expect to ever see any of this again.

The Gryffindor is very tall and rosy-cheeked and has Taylor blushing a storm when he hands her a Beaters' bat.

“Your sister’s going to be terrifying,” Tom helpfully points out. Barclay laughs.

“She’s already terrifying.”

They descend the rest of the steps as a Bludger is released from its wooden box. It zooms directly for Taylor's face, and with a shriek, she swings the bat.

There’s a crack when the wood hits the ball and sends it flying in the opposite direction. Connor laughs and the Gryffindor is patting Taylor’s shoulder, who looks both shell-shocked and elated.

"Wow," Tom catches him saying as they finally reach the Bealeses. "That's quite an arm there, Taylor. You'll have to catch up quick on the flying bit and try out come autumn."

Mr. Beales has wrapped an arm around Mrs. Beales’ waist and Tom can _see_ her hold her tongue.

“Parisa could help you practice if you wanted. She’s on my team,” he offers.

The Gryffindor's head turns -- and then double-takes as he sees Tom.

"Tom Mann? From the Magpies? Hi, I'm Charlie Jones and I'm going to be Gryffindor Captain next year and I play Keeper, like Casey Johnson did when he was here, and this year I made 312 saves --"

“Whoa,” Barclay says and although he says it quietly, probably not meant for anyone, Charlie Jones, Gryffindor Keeper, must’ve heard him as he breaks off mid-sentence.

Tom grins and shakes the boy’s hand.

“You’re a fan of Casey’s then?”

"I'm a fan of all of you," Charlie Jones says. "I know every stat on every active player in the League. Ask me anybody. I thought that Feint last match was brilliant, although if I were your coach I'd make you practice your knut-turns a bit."

Tom bristles a bit, though mostly because Coach _had_ pointed that out at the last practice. He’s no stranger to everyone he meets having an opinion on what he should practice more. The general public all seem to know best.

“Good eye,” he says. “What year are you in?”

Charlie Jones is very tall, but then Reece Bibby had been tiny and he’d been in seventh year.

"Fourth," Charlie says. "I'll be the youngest captain since _Harry Potter_."

“You Gryffindors are all overachievers,” Tom grins. “Though he was a great Seeker.”

Charlie nods. "The brooms today are much faster than the ones he had to wrangle, but his instincts were legendary."

“How fast _does_ a broom go?” Taylor pitches in, tilting her head prettily and smiling at Charlie Jones.

"Depends on the model," Charlie says. "Top racing brooms top out at 300 knots."

“Racing brooms, yeah. Not Quidditch brooms though. Makes them too tough to manoeuvre,” Tom says. “And you’re not allowed to go that fast on a school pitch anyway.”

Taylor looks back and forth between them and then looks to Barclay.

“How fast is 300 knots?”

“About 340 mph,” Barclay says with a grin and then turns to Tom. “Are there really brooms that go that fast?”

Tom shrugs. "Yeah, there are daredevils and racers who try to out-fly each other, but it's a tricky bit of magic to enchant a broom to go that quickly and unless you're very good at judging when to start stopping, it's rather dangerous."

“Sounds a lot like cars,” Barclay says. “Only less metal all around you, I suppose.”

"You can't clean a kitchen with a car," Connor points out.

Tom gets a sudden image of trying to sweep their kitchen with his Lightning Bolt and laughs.

“Probably shouldn’t attempt it with a Quidditch broom either,” he says. “Though I suppose if you’re _really_ good that could work.”

“Good at Quidditch or sweeping?” Connor asks.

“Both, probably,” Tom says. “I’ve never tried sweeping.”

“Probably for the best,” Barclay grins and gives Tom’s hand an affectionate squeeze when he turns an outraged grimace on him. Mrs. Beales just tuts and mutters something that sounds like _teach him some cleaning spells_.

There’s a lapse in the conversation then that Mrs. Beales uses to step forward. She narrowly avoids being hit by the Bludger, but Taylor gives it another whack and then Charlie chases it down and wrestles it back into its box.

“Well, it’s been lovely of you to show us around, Charlie, but I’m afraid we’ve got to get home,” she says.

“But --” Taylor tries to protest, but is shot down immediately.

“You’ve still got that assignment for you English class to do. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that just because you’ve been putting it off all week,” Mrs. Beales says sternly.

Taylor groans. Then she looks up at Charlie Jones from beneath her eyelashes. "You don't have boring English class here, right?"

"Right," Charlie says. "But we have History of Magic, and that's probably worse. It's worse than anything." He offers her an elbow. "I'll walk you back to the castle."

“Thank you,” Taylor says, very primly, and puts her hand in the bend of Charlie’s elbow. Charlie picks up the box with the balls and the bat and detours to put them back in the storage cupboard.

Mrs. Beales and Barclay exchange a knowing look behind their backs, and then Connor trots off to take Taylor's other elbow, talking very loudly about brooms and cars.

Tom’s willing to bet Connor’s in for one hell of a pout from his sister.

Still, when they’re back at the castle, Charlie gives Taylor his address and tells her to write if there’s anything she needs over the summer, or she just wants someone to talk to. Taylor beams and tells him she will and Connor looks a bit put out that he’d apparently not been intimidating enough.

Barclay wraps Taylor in a bear hug that lasts long enough for Tom to wander over to a suit of armor and engage it in a game of Eye-Spy, letting the Bealeses have their family time.

“Bye, Tom!” Taylor calls over to him, while the rest of the Beales family merely raise their hands and wave at him and Barclay strolls over to lean against him a bit.

“You didn’t need to hang back,” he says.

Tom shrugs.

“Didn’t want to intrude,” Tom explains. “So, did you want to leave as well, or...?”

"Is there anything else we can do here?" Barclay asks. "It's a school and a school night. And we're old."

"Speak for yourself," Tom sniffs.

“You’re older than me,” Barclay points out helpfully. Tom pinches his arm.

“We could go get some of those biscuits from Mme. Puddifoot’s, if you wanted? Or we could go home via Diagon Alley, get you a wand...?” Tom suggests.

Barclay's eyes shine. "Could I really get a wand? Just -- like that? Today?"

“Yeah, absolutely. We’ll just go by Ollivander’s. There’s one here in Hogsmeade even, we could just do it now,” Tom says.

Barclay's pulse jumps; Tom can feel it where his thumb rests against Barclay's wrist.

“It’s great, getting your wand,” Tom says. “It feels... good. You’ll see.”

Barclay nods. "Lead the way."

Tom laces their fingers together again and Barclay falls into step next to him. The stroll back to Hogsmeade is just as idyllic as the one towards the castle, and for the most part Tom lets the silence between them be. It’s not an uncomfortable one, anyway.

It feels shorter to walk back -- probably because it's downhill rather than up -- and they cross through the wards and the gate before too much time has passed.

“Are all wizarding villages this... picturesque?” Barclay asks as they walk down the high street.

“More or less. They’re old pretty old and there was never any reason to change anything so they’re usually rather quaint,” Tom says.

Barclay smiles. "I like it. Reminds me a bit of home. I wonder how m'house is getting on without me."

"Probably like a house on fire," Tom assures him.

“You... you don’t mean it’s actually on fire, do you? That doesn’t mean something different to wizards?” Barclay asks.

Tom just shakes his head and then kisses Barclay's shoulder. "It's a house. I'm sure it's fine. It won't miss you too much." He pauses. “Maybe if Betsy wants to move in with Case, you and I could -- I don’t want to invite myself, but I think Charlotte would miss Ophy.”

“Probably,” Barclay acquiesces and lets Tom steer him into the small Ollivander’s branch shop. there’s a bell over the door that chimes for far longer than the door’s open when they step inside and a gnarly old witch behind the counter.

"'Ello," she croaks. "Replacement wand? What's your core?"

“Er, no,” Barclay says, stepping up to the counter. “I’ve not got one yet.”

Her good eye swivels up to look at his face. "Really. Now that's worth waking me up for. Come 'ere, let me get a look at you."

Barclay follows her behind the counter and keeps still while the old witch circles him ones, giving him a critical once over, even if he does cast Tom a dubious look. Tom just smiles back encouragingly.

The witch murmurs to herself and then bustles back into the depths of the shelves at the back of the store with a “just a moment, love”. When she returns she presents Barclay with three long, thin boxes, all opened to reveal shiny, new wands.

“Give ‘em try then,” she says, holding the boxes out to Barclay.

Barclay hesitates, his hand hovering over the first of the three wands. "What do I do? I don't want to -- I don't want to accidentally hurt anyone."

“Not to worry; that hardly ever happens. Just wave them around a bit, maybe aim away from me and your boy over there if you’re worried,” the witch says.

Barclay swallows, but Tom can't help smiling into his own shoulder. _Your boy_.

He watches Barclay reach out for the first wand and run his fingers over it briefly, before he moves on to the second, then third and finally picks up the one in the middle, fingers curled around the handle delicately.

"I feel silly."

"It's silly you're taking so long," grumps the old witch.

“Usually it’s just sparks or nothing,” Tom says helpfully. “Just go for it.”

Barclay closes his eyes and lifts the wand. He waves it with a little flourish.

Nothing happens.

“Alright,” the witch says and takes the wand from him. “Not that one. Next one please.”

Barclay's brow creases. He doesn't close his eyes this time when he lifts the wand, almost shaking it as he swishes it through the air.

Nothing happens this time either and the witch is quick to pull the wand out of his hands. This time Barclay doesn’t wait for her to tell him to go for the next one and just picks it up immediately.

Tom steps closer, despite the chance he might get hexed, and rests his hand on the small of Barclay's back just to steady him.

Barclay gives him a shaky smile and takes a deep breath as if to steady himself. Barclay moves the wand through the air in a slow figure eight and once he gets too the second curve purple and green and golden sparks come flying out the tip.

He drops the wand and bounces up and down on his toes. "I did it!"

“Congratulations,” the witch deadpans and Tom bends down to pick the wand up before she can.

"What spell was that?" Barclay asks Tom, taking it again. He repeats the motion and more sparks of the same colors drizzle from the end.

"None," Tom admits. "Just sort of... your magic."

“Is it always that colour?” Barclay asks, still staring at the sparks he’s creating.

Tom shakes his head. "Nah, mine were pink and kind of teal. I like yours, though."

Barclay grins and when the witch clears her throat pointedly turns to smile at her.

“Would you like to keep the box or are you taking it like that?” she asks.

"I'll take it just like this," Barclay says. Then he frowns at Tom. "Where d'you keep your wand?"

“Pocket,” Tom shrugs and shows Barclay the one on the inside of his cloak.

"Is that why wizards wear robes?" Barclay asks, and cradles his wand like it's a baby. "So that your pockets can be long enough for your wands?"

Tom bites his tongue at the joke he's dying to make, but can't in front of a centagenarian witch.

“Never thought about it,” he says instead and steers Barclay back over towards the counter.

“It’s a hornbeam with unicorn core. 12 inches. Pliant one, too,” the witch says. “Remember that, in case you ever need a replacement.”

Barclay nods, looking down at the wand he's rocking in his arms. Tom giggles a little and gently rests a hand on Barclay's bicep to still it.

“Seven galleons,” the witch says and Tom counts out the coins.

Barclay looks up from his wand. "I'll pay you back when I can."

"Don't worry about it," Tom says. "Really. It's not much."

“Still,” Barclay insists.

The witch takes the coins from Tom’s hand and then wishes them a pleasant day. Tom keeps a hand on Barclay’s back to steer him outside, since he’s still a bit taken with his new wand.

"D'you want to stop in and get those biscuits before we Apparate home?"

Barclay swishes his wand again to make more sparks fly out. "Hmm? Oh, sure."

Tom rolls his eyes fondly and lets Barclay play with his sparks, steering him in and out of Mme. Puddifoot’s Tea Shop quickly, tin of biscuits shrunk to fit into the other pocket of his robes.

“You want to Apparate or take the Floo?” he asks.

Barclay throws a few more sparks. "I guess Apparition is faster, isn't it? I want to go home and show Casey my wand."

"He gets all the good-looking people," Tom grumbles.

“Betsy _is_ stunning,” Barclay agrees. “D’you think she’ll be over? It’d be mean if I showed Taylor, right? I should wait till she has one too?”

"Yeah, probably," Tom agrees. "I wonder if she'll have hornbeam, too, since you're related. Sometimes families work that way, all in a lineage."

“Really? Will she have a unicorn hair too? What do you have?” Barclay asks.

“Mine’s apple wood and phoenix feather,” he says, pulling it out of its pocket. “Bit shorter than yours, see? ‘Slightly yielding’ instead of ‘pliant’ as well.”

“Is that because you’re stubborn?”

“Probably,” Tom grins. “I don’t know much about wandlore, I have to admit.”

Barclay just smiles like the cat that got the cream, or the Charlotte that caught the murtlap. "It's because you're stubborn. Pushy little Thomas Ophiuchus Mann."

"Eurgh." Tom just clasps onto Barclay's waist and Apparates them back to the flat.

Barclay stumbles a little when they reappear in Tom’s bedroom and catches himself with a hand on Tom’s bed sheets. Charlotte jumps up from where she’d probably been dozing in the bed, all fluffed up.

“That was mean,” Barclay says. “That’s exactly why you’re only _slightly_ yielding.”

Tom sticks out his tongue and pats Barclay's bum as he passes behind him to leave the room. "Gonna make tea and have some biscuits. Do you want a cuppa? Quiet night?" He pauses. "Maybe I'll teach you a few little spells before bed."

“All of the above, please,” Barclay says, beaming now that he’s got his balance back. “I’m gonna go find Casey.”

Tom heads to the kitchen, Charlotte nipping at his ankles. He boils tea the magic way, despite what Casey says about a difference in the taste, and enjoys the gentle whistling sound of the kettle.

There’s laughter and generally happy exclamations coming from further in the flat and Tom grins to himself. He’s glad that Barclay’s got his own wand, that he _wanted_ it. Selfishly, a little, because that means he won’t leave, at least not because of the whole magic thing, but also glad for Barclay, that he’s excited about this part of himself.

"Tea's on!" he calls towards the back bedrooms. "Casey, we got some of the McGonagall biscuits!"

"That's what she said!" Casey yells back.

“Not to you, she didn’t,” Tom calls back, practiced, even if McGonagall undoubtedly told Casey about the biscuits as well, Gryffindor Quidditch Captain and All Around Golden Boy that he’d been.

Betsy doesn't follow -- probably went home to Parisa and Lauren -- when Casey and Barclay wander into the kitchen. Barclay is still nearly glowing he looks so happy.

“Barclay’s got a new wand to play with,” Casey grins and reaches into the tin of biscuits, grabbing a handful. Tom just rolls his eyes - both at the joke and biscuit steal.

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta show him how to handle it right, and that person'll be me," Tom says. "I am an expert at wandwork."

"Wandjobs, more like," Barclay murmurs.

Tom turns to Barclay to shoot him a look of scandalised betrayal, but softens into a smile at how happy Barclay seems with himself and leans in for a quick kiss instead.

“Those too,” he says.

Charlotte jumps into Barclay's lap as soon as they're all seated, and she noses beneath his chin until he gives her good scratches. It's a quiet sort of camaraderie as they all eat their biscuits. There’s only Charlotte’s purring and the crunching of the biscuits, occasionally a slurp of too hot tea although never from Casey who doesn’t feel heat like normal humans do. It’s only ended by Casey setting his - presumably empty - mug of tea down before reaching for another few biscuits.

“Well, as much as I’d like to stay and chat, I feel like I’d better leave you to your... wandwork,” he says with a grin.

Tom throws him a rude gesture, but it's futile. Nothing bothers Casey except when his hair won't quiff right.

Charlotte seems to have sided with Casey, or at least she follows him out of the room, leaving Barclay and Tom to themselves.

Barclay smiles at Tom and waves his wand to make a few sparks. "Teach me a spell! Something good."

Tom grins and pulls his own wand out, shooting out a few of his pink and teal sparks for Barclay to see and winks at him before waving his wand to make all the lights go out.

“Wanna learn how to make light?” Tom asks.

Barclay nods, his eyes wide dark moons. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and copies how Tom is holding his own wand.

“Okay, so you basically just need to draw a loop in the air for this one,” Tom says and demonstrates slowly. “And you say _Lumos_.”

Barclay stretches out his arm and draws a slow, deliberate circle. His long fingers look _right_ holding the green-veined hornbeam wand.

“You need a bit more a of a line at the end and the beginning,” Tom says. “Like you’re drawing a line and then a loop and then going on with the line. But only for a bit.”

He shuffles over to sit down next to Barclay and demonstrates again.

“Like this.”

Barclay sits closer and copies the motion. "Lumos."

The tip of his wand flickers but ultimately goes out again.

“Did you see that?” Barclay asks, excitedly.

“I did,” Tom grins. “You don’t need to rush or push too hard. Just sort of... let it flow.”

Barclay closes his eyes, exhales, and tries again: "Lumos."

This time the light is a bit stronger, doesn’t flicker so much, but doesn’t stay around longer than a few seconds either.

“It always takes practice,” Tom says, putting his hand on Barclay’s thigh. “Especially right at the beginning. And probably a bit more for you, since you’ve not done much with your magic until now.”

Barclay just tries again, and this time the light stays on, dimming and brightening, but staying strong.

“I’m doing it! Look!” he says, nudging Tom’s side with his shoulder.

“Yeah, you are,” Tom says. “You’re doing great.”

Barclay beams at him and stares at the light at the end of his wand, watching it swell and dim, before he wrinkles his eyebrows.

“How do I turn it off?”

Tom laughs. "Well, it's not really turning anything off, it's just dousing the light. It'll be there whenever you need it; it's not like electricity that can run out."

“Electricity doesn’t ‘run out’ as such either, it’s more--” Barclay starts but then breaks off. “Nevermind. I’m not entirely sure how it works actually. So, how do I douse the magical light?”

Tom wraps his hand around Barclay's and draws it through the air. "Nox."

The light goes out.

“How did you do that?” Barclay asks. “How can _you_ douse _my_ light?”

Tom shrugs, still pressed close to Barclay. "Not sure. I haven't done it before. I guess 'cause it was your wand moving."

“Oh. Okay,” Barclay says. “So if I moved your wand, I could turn it on?”

Tom can't help it: he just snorts. "Er -- well. In a manner of speaking."

Barclay grins wide and a little bit filthy, waggling his eyebrows before he laughs it off.

“No, but, seriously. If I used your wand, would it work for me?”

"It would do something, but it's not so predictable," Tom says. "Like, I tried to use James' wand once and turned myself green. I was trying to unlock my trunk."

“Oh. So, I’d better not,” Barclay says.

“Yeah. Probably best,” Tom agrees. "Lumos and Nox are pretty basic spells, though, so I figured worst that could happen would be, you know. Feathers."

“Well. I’d still rather not grow any of those,” Barclay says and then continues with a wink, “Plus, your _other_ wand is far more fun to play with anyway.”

"Well, I never," Tom murmurs.

“No need to play coy, Mr. Mann. I was there too, remember,” Barclay grins.

Tom nuzzles his face into the warm plain behind Barclay's shoulder. "Yes, you were."

"Fun times," Barclay mumbles and then lifts his wand hand again, drawing it through the air and whispering 'lumos'.

The glow is bright and strong and Tom can see that Barclay's brand of magic has a slight, gentle pink edge to it that makes the whole room look warmer. The smile on Barclay’s face is just as bright and Tom nuzzles down against Barclay’s shoulder again to hide his own.

“You’re doing really well.”

"Thank you," Barclay says primly. "May I show you to the bedroom?"

"I could probably find it in the dark," Tom laughs. "But yes."

“Hush. I have a magical light and I’m going to use it to show my boyfriend to our room,” Barclay says. He reaches into his pocket and sets a softly sniffling Ophiuchus down onto the sofa before getting up and holding a hand out to Tom.

_His boyfriend. Our room._ Tom schools his face into an unaffected expression with all of his Slytherinly cunning, but he knows that Barclay can read his squeaking thoughts just as clearly.

Instead of calling him on it, Barclay just wraps his hand around Tom’s and pulls him down the short hallway into Tom’s - _their_ \- room. 

“Wanna know what you look like in this light,” Barclay whispers, pushing Tom towards the bedroom and closing the door behind himself. “Take off your clothes.”

Tom wants to laugh -- he'd look the same in any light -- but something in Barclay's voice keeps the laughter at bay. Instead, he undoes the buttons of his robes without ever looking away from Barclay's eyes and lets the material fall from his shoulders in a silent pool around his feet. It leaves him in a t-shirt and boxer briefs and the slight widening of Barclay’s eyes is enough for Tom to know that Barclay still sometimes forgets that Tom’s not one for wearing trousers under his robes.

"More?" Tom asks, raising an eyebrow. "Seen enough yet?"

Barclay shakes his head, pulling a regretful grimace that wouldn’t even fool a toddler.

“I’m afraid I’d quite like to see it all.”

Tom shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but he pulls off his shirt anyway. The wand light is just bright enough that maybe he does look good like this, enhanced shadows making it look like he has more muscle than he really does. He can’t say he’s ever paid much attention to the _lighting_ when he got someone naked, but he likes the warm, pink glow to Barclay’s light and he likes the fact that it’s Barclay’s. He likes that it’s Barclay looking at him, so he shimmies out of his underwear at well.

"Enough now?" He strikes a pose.

Barclay smiles, a teasing edge curling around the corner of his lips.

“It’s like you don’t want us to be naked.”

"Oh, no, I definitely do," Tom says. "But you aren't yet, are you?"

“Wanted to look at you first,” Barclay says and crosses the room, sliding the hand that’s not holding his glowing wand along Tom’s face and leaning in for a kiss.

Tom whispers _nox_ against Barclay's lips.

Barclay repeats the word as if answering him and the light vanishes.

Tom kisses Barclay like he's wanted to for ages and never been able to, not since the first night, and -- it's different now than it was then. He _knows_ him now.

Barclay grunts a little noise of surprise but then drops his wand with a soft clatter and grab’s at Tom’s head with both hands, carding his fingers through his hair and pulling him closer.

Tom curls his hands into the hem of Barclay's jumper. "Now you're wearing too much."

“Yeah?” Barclay asks, reaching back to pull the jumper off over his head. “Wanna look at me?”

“Some other time,” Tom murmurs, sliding his hands up over the skin revealed. “Right now I want to touch you.”

Barclay's skin is warm and soft and puckered with goosebumps as Tom runs his fingertips over it lightly, lightly. His nipples are already hard when Tom reaches them and his breathing is just a little more flat than usual underneath Tom’s hands.

"Been a while," Tom murmurs. He knows that Barclay can hear the unspoken _glad you still want me_ just as loudly.

“Had to deal with a few unexpected things,” Barclay says with a wink and drops his jumper, circling his arms around Tom’s waist and pulling him into another kiss.

The material of Barclay's muggle jeans is rough where it scrapes up against the skin of Tom's thighs, but he edges closer until their legs are slotted. Tom pushes his hands up over Barclay’s shoulders, winding them around him and pulling them flush together, the heat of Barclay’s chest pressed to his making goosebumps spring up down the line of his spine.

Barclay murmurs low in his throat even as he tongues into Tom's mouth, one big hand on Tom's jaw. It’s hot and insistent and it makes Tom roll up onto the balls of his feet so he can push back, not because he’s not enjoying it but because he wants to give as much as he gets.

Barclay lifts Tom right off his feet.

It's all he can do to cling on, arms and legs everywhere, until Barclay turns and they're both down on the bed.

Tom’s not sure if he wants to roll Barclay over and straddle his hips or roll onto his back and pull Barclay on top of his instead, so he settles for finding his mouth with his own again and reaching down to fiddle with the buttons of his jeans, trying to get them open.

Barclay mutters _yeah_ against Tom's mouth and then the jeans are open and Barclay is so hot underneath, like he has kindling and fire and energy instead of skin and bones and muscle.

Barclay kicks his legs, pushing the jeans down and off over his feet and Tom slots one of his own legs between Barclay’s as soon as he can.

Barclay's soft lips drag down over Tom's prickly jaw and to the soft line of his neck. "What'd'you want?"

Tom wants to get his hands and his lips on all of Barclay’s skin. He wants to ride him till they’re both sweaty and exhausted and giddy with the buildup of a really intense orgasm. He wants to lie back and let Barclay drive into him.

“Everything. Anything,” he mumbles, tilting his head to give Barclay more access.

Barclay brushes his lips over Tom's temple. "I like how you fit under me. I want it all, too."

There’s a burst of heat that explodes in Tom’s gut at Barclay’s words, washes out through his veins and sets his body alight down to the tips of his toes.

“You can have it all,” he says.

Barclay bites at the join of Tom's neck and shoulder, sucking just enough to raise a dark pink bruise. Tom hums and stretches out to give him more room, more skin.

There’s something luxurious to being touched like this. To have this much attention and desire focused on you. Tom has always been a fan, but knowing Barclay like he does, wanting him back like he does, knowing how much Barclay knows about how much Tom likes it, makes it a lot more intense; more intimate.

Tom slides his hands under the soft cotton of Barclay's pants and cups his bum. "You sure you want it this way?"

“Yeah. I do like it this way,” Barclay says, rolling his hips down against Tom’s. “Just not every time.”

Tom hums and spreads his thighs to cradle Barclay's hips. "Funny, same here."

Barclay grins and kisses Tom briefly. “That works out well then.”

Tom grins back and pulls Barclay's pants down as far as he can before they get stuck on knees -- whether his or Barclay's, he can't tell anymore.

“Can’t you just magic them away?” Barclay teases, twisting around a bit to push the pants further and then kick them off too.

“I could,” Tom says, letting his hands roam back up over the backs of Barclay’s things and his bum, up to his back and back down. “But that involves so much less touching you.”

Barclay kisses his way down Tom's neck and shoulder. "That would be terrible."

Tom hums his agreement, feeling the warmth of Barclay’s skin underneath his hands and everywhere they’re pressed together. It would be terrible.

Even though Barclay's been in his bed every night, it hasn't felt like this: just one layer of cotton between them changed everything. Tom resents the way he hadn't been able to feel the soft hair on Barclay's chest, the tiny puckers of the stretch-stripes on Barclay's hips under his palms, the insistent blaze of heat that bleeds out of Barclay's skin. It’s just... better this way. Being able to let his hands roam over Barclay’s body and kiss him as hungrily as he wants to. Not being afraid he’ll scare him off if he oversteps a line Barclay doesn’t want to cross - be it about their bodies or magic.

Barclay nudges Tom's ribs with his nose. He looks up from beneath his lashes even as he keeps kissing down the length of Tom's belly. "When I said I wanted all of it, I meant all of it. Really. Stop worrying."

“‘m not worried,” Tom says, passing a hand along the shape of Barclay’s head, cradling it in his hand before dropping the hand back down to the sheets. “Not anymore. Really.”

Barclay grins and waggles his eyebrows. "Good. Then let me do _my_ magic."

“You’re terrible and I don’t like you at all,” Tom mumbles, tilting his head back to hide his grin. Futile, he knows. Even if Barclay couldn’t read his thoughts, he knows his fondness is dripping off every syllable.

Barclay just nips his teeth at Tom's hipbone in chastisement.

It tickles, more than anything, and sends a zing of heat up Tom’s spine.

Barclay's hands soothe up and down Tom's thighs, gently easing them wider so Barclay's broad shoulders can fit between them.

Tom doesn’t need much coaxing, really. He’s only too happy to oblige. Barclay makes quite the picture down there. Well. Anywhere, really.

Barclay is also a terrible tease.

He brushes his lips lightly over the top of one of Tom’s thighs and presses a lingering kiss to his kneecap - not something that’s ever been part of any of Tom’s fantasies, but now it feels like every touch is sparking brightly in his mind.

He's torturously slow as he laves kisses up the inside of Tom's thigh.

Tom can’t help thinking about where he wants those kisses to lead, the obvious red hot pulse in between his legs and he knows that Barclay knows and it’s at once both hot and frustrating because Barclay is a tease and knowing what Tom wants doesn’t mean he’ll give it to him. Not immediately.

Barclay laughs low and lets soft lips trail so, so close to Tom's cock without touching. "And people think fucking a mind-reader makes it all easier."

“Clearly they’ve no idea what they’re talking about,” Tom mumbles. He remembers last time though. Last time when Barclay still thought it was just good intuition and Tom still thought Barclay was just another muggle. It was already so good then.

Barclay actually smiles at that. "Yeah, it was." He gives the head of Tom's cock a tiny lick. "This will be better."

Tom makes a small, involuntary sound that is definitely not a whimper. Whether it’s that Barclay’s a mind-reader or that Tom’s just wildly into him he knows Barclay’s right. This _will_ be better.

Barclay stops smiling then. And talking.

“Oh, Merlin,” Tom breathes, staring up at the ceiling and letting the first rush of sensation from Barclay’s wet, hot mouth on his prick wash over him.

For once, Barclay doesn't laugh at the wizarding exclamation. He just hollows his cheeks and slides deeper down.

Wildly, Tom thinks it’s already better than last time, but he’s inclined to think every time with Barclay is possibly the best time.

Barclay's mouth is still soft and the perfect pressure and then -- he rubs his thumb across the bowtruckle scar again. Tom is just coherent enough to tell that Barclay's cheeks are struggling not to pull up into a grin at the goofy sound Tom's just made.

“That- that’s evil,” he gasps, fingers winding into the sheets for something to hold on to.

Barclay slurps his way up, loud and shameless. He sticks his tongue out at Tom -- and then it's slick and tricky and greedy, tasting every bit of salty precome that Tom's leaked. Barclay’s as precise as he’s enthusiastic, big hands holding Tom’s trembling legs open and his lips tight while he bobs his head, eyes closed like he’s concentrating. Or enjoying himself.

Tom sneaks a glance down to where Barclay's hips flex against the bed, too, and feels a flush of pride. It’s not that he’s doing anything to Barclay, maybe, not actively. But sometimes letting someone have something, just lying back and enjoying them, can be just as satisfying.

Barclay slurps off again, just as loud. "D'you have -- like. Is there magic lube or something that you want?"

“Magic lube?” Tom asks, giggling a little. “What, to make my arse smell like roses?”

"No!" Barclay gives Tom's hip a little poke. "Just like, I didn't figure you had a tube of K-Y."

“No, I, um-- there’s a tub in the nightstand,” Tom says. “It’s safe, I promise.”

"Well, that's probably the point," Barclay says. He kneels up and leans over Tom to reach the nightstand.

His cock nudges against Tom's belly when he leans over him like this, and Tom shivers. Barclay’s not even doing it on purpose, probably, but the promise of what it’ll feel like inside him is still there and Tom can’t resist reaching down a hand and curling it around Barclay’s cock; feeling it out.

Barclay exhales in a sharp laugh. "Like it?"

“Yeah, I do. I think it likes me too,” Tom grins, strengthening his grip and pumping his hand a bit, slowly.

"Don't need to be a mind-reader to know that." Barclay's murmur is so soft that even Tom can barely hear, but he doesn't need to: he can feel it in the shape of Barclay's lips against his own.

It’s a sweet kiss. A gentle kiss, far softer than all the ones from earlier that brought them here, but it’s nice. It settles Tom back into his bones and warms him from the inside without any threat of burning up.

Barclay pulls away just far enough to nuzzle his nose against the side of Tom's. "Still want my fingers?"

“Very much so,” Tom murmurs, hot breath washing out over Barclay’s skin and bouncing right back.

Barclay leaves one last light kiss on Tom's lips, and then he sits back on his heels and unscrews the lid of the lube.

He sniffs it. "Seems normal."

Tom can’t resist rolling his eyes.

“Of course it’s normal,” he says. “It’s not gonna apply itself, either.”

"Won't turn my fingers into anything weird, will it?"

"What kind of pervert d'you think I am?"

“I don’t know. Maybe it’ll make ‘em vibrate or something,” Barclay says.

“Not if you grabbed the right tub, no,” Tom says and Barclay rolls his eyes and sticks his fingers in anyway.

"Ooh," Barclay says. "It's one of the tingly ones, then. 'S not bad. At least my fingers aren't, like, canaries."

"What the fuck is it like to live in your brain?" Tom laughs, even as Barclay's fingertips start to draw a gentle circle over the furl of muscle to relax him.

“Maybe you should learn how to read minds, then you’d know,” Barclay quips, working the lube into Tom’s skin.

Tom’s eyes suddenly go wide.

“Oh, you- oh. You used... oh,” he says.

"I thought you said it wasn't weird!" Barclay's eyes go wide. "I mean, not that -- it's not that weird, but -- "

“No, no, no, it’s fine,” Tom says, reaching out a hand to lay on Barclay’s other arm. “It’s just... medical. Technically. I use it after really intense matches. It relaxes the muscles, stimulates self-healing and such.”

“Oh,” Barclay says.

"Well," Tom says, and his cheeks go pink. "That's... the mostly reason... I use it."

“The mostly reason?” Barclay asks, lips curled into a teasing smile.

“Yes. Mostly... for that. It also, um. It feels really nice, when it... kicks in.”

Barclay nudges Tom with his gently-vibrating fingertips. "Does it, now?"

“It gets more intense. For a bit,” Tom says, dropping his eyes from Barclay’s face and feeling a flush hot in his cheeks. He knows Barclay can see inside his head and all, but they’ve not discussed his more adventurous wanking habits.

Barclay grins and one finger slides inside Tom, slowly, to the first knuckle and then the second. The vibration from the lube has barely started, but it's still noticeable.

Tom’s never done this with anyone else, but just thinking about how much better Barclay will be able to reach makes him bite his lip in anticipation.

Barclay smiles back and bends down to tease Tom's lip out into a kiss.

It’s a good kiss and it distracts Tom enough from what he knows is going to happen so that he doesn’t wind himself up too much and can relax around Barclay’s finger as it pushes deeper and is then joined by a second one.

By the time both are deep inside, the lube's vibration is fully activated.

Barclay pulls out of the kiss, wide eyes flicking down to where his fingers are buried in Tom’s body before they look back up at Tom’s face. Tom still feels flushed, though for an entirely different reason this time.

"How d'you like it?" Barclay asks. "Should I -- like normal, or...?"

Tom laughs a quiet laugh and nods his head maybe a little too enthusiastically.

“Just how you would anyway. ‘s good.”

Barclay nods and pulls his fingers back to curl them slightly as they slide inside again, the vibration sending little sparks of heat and shiver through Tom.

“How long does it last?” Barclay asks, voice soft as he watches Tom’s abdomen jolt with each spike of pleasure.

"Um -- " Tom's a bit scrambled. It's hard to think with Barclay's eyes so dark and lip so red and wet as he stares down at Tom, fingers in deep and vibrating potion stimulating every nerve. "Er, not -- too long."

Barclay makes a considering noise and curls his fingers again.

“Could you get off like this? If I just kept using more? Kept the vibration going?”

"Yeah, but... another time." Tom isn't above begging. "Want _you_."

“I want you too,” Barclay says and leans back down for another kiss. “Want another finger?”

Tom reaches one lazy, boneless hand down and wraps his fingers around Barclay's cock. They don't reach all the way around. "Prob'ly best."

“You can have four, if you want,” Barclay says, pushing at Tom’s rim with the third finger. “Make you comfortable and open.”

Tom nods, his head falling back against the pillows, hips chasing Barclay's fingers and the silent, sweet vibration that he wants to pull closer and closer.

Barclay obliges and pushes in as deep as he can, curling all three of his fingers and moving them back and forth gently.

Tom groans and circles his hips back. Barclay's biceps feel good under his hands, under his blunt nails.

“I don’t mind if you scratch a little,” Barclay murmurs, keeping the slow in and out rhythm of his fingers steady.

Tom's nails are too short to raise pink lines, but it feels good to think he's made some kind of indelible mark on Barclay, too.

Barclay leans down to kiss him again, pressing his smile against Tom’s lips.

It's enough to distract him from the twinge of a stretch as the fourth finger bundles in close and eases slowly past Tom's rim. If he really wanted to, he could take Barclay with just the stretch from the first three, probably, but he’s always liked this part of it. The connection and the anticipation of it.

Barclay kisses low close to Tom's ear. "Y'alright?"

“Good,” Tom says and rolls his hips to meet the intrusion. “Really good.”

He still whimpers once when Barclay opens his palm, slow, slow, slow, and the stretch and vibration and fullness are so powerful that it feels like he might break in half. His hips twitch away from and towards it and Tom’s trembling down to the fingertips curled around Barclay’s arms.

Barclay kisses between Tom's eyes. "Breathe."

“I am,” Tom says, though his breathing is far from regular. “‘s a lot.”

Barclay nods and whispers, "For me, too."

Tom chuckles breathlessly. “Reading my -- my mind again?”

Barclay shakes his head. "Just telling you what's on mine."

“Soppy,” Tom says, rolling his hips down to meet Barclay’s fingers more firmly.

Barclay sounds breathless when he tries to laugh. "Guilty of that. Think you're ready?"

“Very ready.” Tom tries for firm, but he’s been past it for a while.

When Barclay's fingers -- having stopped vibrating -- slide carefully free, Tom feels empty.

“Condom?” Barclay asks, leaning to reach for the nightstand again.

“What? Oh,” Tom says and wrinkles his brow. “Hang on.”

He fumbles for his wand with shaky, sweat-slicked fingers. When he manages a proper grip, he points towards the crack beneath the door and says, "Accio condom!"

“Oi! Get your own!” Casey shouts from across the hall, which is a good reminder to soundproof the room as well, just as the condom zooms underneath the door and smacks Barclay in the back unceremoniously.

“Just did!” Tom shouts back, voice cracking a little.

Barclay shakes with silent, squint-eyed laughter, the way he does when he can't quite control showing how funny he thought something simple was. It leaves Tom to sit up and reach around Barclay to pluck the foil packet from the duvet and tear it open.

Barclay stops laughing when Tom rolls the rubber down the length of his dick.

Tom waves his wand again, spreading a soundproof bubble around them and then falls back against the sheets, tossing his wand off the bed.

“Do your worst, Mr. Beales,” he grins, spreading his legs.

Barclay looks greedy, but doesn't waste any time. He shuffles in between Tom’s legs and reaches a hand down to help line up his cock before he starts pushing in, eyes on Tom’s face.

Tom's so open that it's an easy slide, but he can still feel the slight burn that comes from being so suddenly filled.

“Still good?” Barclay asks once he’s pushed in fully, hips cradled by Tom’s thighs.

Tom answers with a nod and the way his legs wrap around Barclay's waist.

“Bet you can make it even better,” he murmurs, drawing Barclay down on top of himself fully with arms wrapped around his neck.

Barclay grins and buries his face into the curve of Tom's shoulder, sucking the fading pink bruise darker.

“‘s gonna fade eventually,” Tom says, tilting his head to the side to give Barclay more room anyway.

“I’ll just have to do it again, then.”

It's less frantic than the first time, but that makes sense: now, they both know that it won't be the last. The movement of Barclay’s hips is smooth, rhythmic, and it’s easy for Tom to match it.

They kiss and exhale against each other's lips; Barclay is so broad that Tom feels like he's everywhere, all that he can see or smell. It might be suffocating if it were anyone else, but underneath Barclay Tom just wants to sink further into the sheets and be covered by him.

Barclay shifts his weight just enough to reach down and wrap one hand around Tom's cock, the callused pad of his thumb dragging bittersweet-rough over the wet head.

Tom’s breathing and movement stutters, but he catches himself and rolls his hips - down onto Barclay’s cock and up into his hand.

"You should see your thoughts right now," Barclay whispers.

“Yeah? Why don’t you tell me about them?” Tom whispers back.

"I can't." Barclay sounds apologetic even as his voice shakes. "They're like -- it's all colors and like... music."

Tom gives a breathless laugh and turns to nuzzle his face into the side of Barclay’s head where he’s got his face buried in Tom’s neck, still nipping at that bruise every now and then.

“Sounds about right.”

Neither of them lasts long.

But it's fine -- there will be another time. And another.

“Insatiable,” Barclay comments, panting a little bit and still now, but still on top of Tom.

"Can you blame me?" Tom asks, and clenches once around Barclay's softening cock just to hear him yelp.

“Alright, alright, give me a moment,” Barclay laughs, pulling out carefully.

He drops the condom into the bin at the side of the bed -- Tom will have to _evanesco_ that later -- and then curls back around Tom, head on Tom's chest like he's the smaller of the two.

“You okay?” Tom asks, shifting a little bit and lifting an arm to curl around Barclay, smoothing his thumb back and forth over the warm skin.

Barclay nods and yawns. "Perfect. But is there a spell for cleaning up? My legs are too jelly to move."

“You’re gonna have to let me scoot over to get my wand,” Tom says. "If you want I can teach you tomorrow. It's fairly easy."

Barclay nods. "Yes, please."

Once everything is clean and dry and the bed is toasty and the used condom is vanished, Tom removes the soundproofing. And is immediately greeted with Charlotte's most indignant meowing through the door.

“You locked her out?” Barclay asks, sitting up on the bed and shooting Tom a look that almost looks a little accusatory before he moves across the room to open the door for her.

“So much for jelly legs,” Tom mumbles to himself.

Charlotte trots into the room, head held high, Ophiuchus held in her mouth.

"Charlotte," Tom sighs. "Don't treat poor Ophy like that."

She drops him into Barclay's outstretched hands and delicately licks her teeth.

Barclay runs his fingers through Ophy’s fur, checking he’s alright, maybe. Judging by the happy trilling sound, he is.

Barclay grins down at the little puffball and then reclaims his spot beside Tom -- even lifts Charlotte away to cuddle back up into the warm spot, head on Tom's chest again.

Charlotte meows her complaint but ultimately curls up in the valley between Tom’s and Barclay’s pressed together bodies. Ophy rolls until he's cupped between Charlotte's front and back legs, his fluffy fur ruffled by the speed of her purrs.

Tom would complain about being too warm, but even from this vantage point he can see Barclay beam at the two of them. He can stand a little heat.

"Can you teach me that clean-up spell in the morning?" Barclay asks, his eyes drifting shut.

Tom kisses his nose. "If you give me a reason... maybe."

“Like I said,” Barclay mumbles, rubbing his cheek against Tom’s chest. “Insatiable.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on Tumblr at [aimmyarrowshigh](http://aimmyarrowshigh.tumblr.com) and [fille-lioncelle](http://fille-lioncelle.tumblr.com)!


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